


A Daedric Desire

by sweetindulgence



Series: Consumerism [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcoholism, Complete, Daedra, Daedric Princes, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Fantasy Violence, Magic, Modern world, Multi, Multiple Realities, Shadowscale - Freeform, Threats of Violence, Tragedy, Trauma, Virtual Reality, a good chunk of dragonborn/veezara, a really hot dunmer, and eventually a hypothetical dragon spirit that is easily pissed off, and listener/cicero, featuring a lovely lady dragonborn, follows the dark brotherhood storyline kind of, hello welcome to a very self-indulgent fic, primarily dragonborn/sanguine, smut chapters are marked for convenience, summary updated 11.25.2019, the keeper of the night mother, the last shadowscale, the lord of debauchery, the main character is bisexual and polyamorous, there is also some gabriella/dragonborn because gabriella is lovely ty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 183,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetindulgence/pseuds/sweetindulgence
Summary: What began as a quest to immerse herself into the fictional world of Skyrim for a night of stress-relief becomes a problem when a twenty-nine-year-old retail worker finds she cannot exit the game. As she plays through her favorite quest lines, her connection to Earth begins to flicker and the world becomes more real and more chaotic than the Dragonborn hoped for.Throw in a cocky Daedric Prince and it's bound to become A Night To Remember.





	1. enter the dragonborn

**Author's Note:**

> this is a really self-indulgent fic where the dragonborn falls in love w 554353454 people  
AND THEY LOVE HER BACK AND CLICHES R USED AND EVENTUALLY THINGS HAPPEN SO KICK BACK AND ENJOY A SLOW BUILD--UP  
i decided to start writing after reading a wonderful dragonborn/sanguine fic  
and a looot of wonderful dragonborn/cicero fics  
it will veer off canon veeeeeery quickly 
> 
> this is written from the perspective of the lovely lady dragonborn. or her dov. but mostly the dragonborn.

_Skyrim _is the only thing on her mind after a long day. It’s Wednesday, eight in the evening, and she’s forced to drop everything she’s doing to clean up the house and put her husband’s laundry away. Her body clams up whenever he so much looks at her. She wants to ignore him, avoid him, and go straight to her PC in the master bedroom, but she’s smarter than that and she knows if everything isn’t picture-perfect for her true love he’ll make her regret it. She fixes dinner, does a second round of dishes, and cleans up the bathroom before she finally has the chance to slip away.

_It’s a deserved break,_ she reckons. The twenty-nine-year-old woman pops into a swiveling chair. She pulls up the game after a minute passes of the incessant spinning circle Windows uses to indicate loading. As she slides headphones on, her hand moves to the keyboard and mouse; she smiles for the first time all day. Not even the retail hours she suffers through can break her spirit; she’s a hardy one.

There’s a phenomenon with _Skyrim_ in the twenty-first century. The open-world game is a masterpiece of bugs, mayhem, and madness of mods, but the real beauty lies in the game’s compatibility for virtual reality exploration. She’s a big fan; she has hundreds of hours on different characters but this time around she opts to slip into the role of someone new as she goes through the title screen, adjusts the settings, and loads up the scene of a cart on a road. The sounds of horses stomping forward, creaky wooden carts rolling, and wildlife in the distance fills her ears as she loses her mind in the virtual reality and takes the plunge into a new game of _Skyrim. _It’s _her_ choice to play it, perhaps the only choice she makes for herself these days.

As the introduction starts no music fills her ears. She relaxes to the sound of the blond man’s voice as Ralof, a Stormcloak soldier in blue and bound at the wrists, begins to speak. “Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

A snowflake drifts gently unto her nose. She beams.

“Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was nice and fine until you came along!” A prisoner with dark hair and glaring eyes spits each word out. “Empire was nice and lazy…If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there,” The prisoner turns to eye her. “You and me—we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” The thief’s protests are pleading and desperate, like she has any say in the matter.

“No. I should be here, actually. Definitely.” She decides to give a joking answer. It earns her a snort from Ralof; she appreciates the blond man’s sense of humor.

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” Ralof smiles.

The driver of the cart looks back long enough to screech, “Shut up back there!”

“Make me.” She mumbles under breath.

“And what’s wrong with him?” The horse thief gestures across to the prisoner sitting right of her. She glances over and spies a well-dressed fellow bound and gagged far severely in comparison to her simple bindings.

Ralof’s eyes narrow. He leans over to the horse thief—easily done when the two sit alongside each other on the opposite side of the cart—and growls. “Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

The look on the horse thief’s face when it dawns what exactly is happening… she almost feels bad. She keeps her head bowed and low when the horse thief begins to protest and cry out, “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion—But—If they captured you—Oh Gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we are going,” Ralof confesses. “But Sovngarde awaits.”

“No—This can’t be happening—This isn’t happening—” The horse thief wails in disbelief.

_Lorik is his name; it’s in the captions of this cutscene. I should have turned them on._ She frowns at the recollection, but she doesn’t speak it aloud: everyone who buys and consumes _Skyrim _knows too many off-script actions can corrupt a legitimate save file.

Ralof clears his throat. He leans back against his side of the cart and pauses. “…What village are you from, horse thief?”

Lorik clenches his eyes shut. “Why do you care?”

_“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” _She thinks the line the same moment Ralof speaks it.

“Rorikstead.” The thief says softly. He swallows then repeats, louder, “I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.”

As the prisoners’ conversation carries on she snaps her head up to see the gates of Helgen open. The town is not large but at this moment it is alive, standing, and without an ounce of the flames Alduin will soon rain upon it. There’s citizens and red-uniformed Imperial soldiers alike intermingling and watching the carts move down the town’s main road. A few children are ushered inside; she catches the eye of a young boy before his parents pick him up and carry him into the wood-and-stone houses.

_It’s not good to see this, kiddo. Trust me, if I had a child I wouldn’t want to see this either. _She smiles to herself. _A good day for an execution. Almost-execution, except for Lorik and that one unnamed Stormcloak soldier. I can’t pity the latter. Ulfric Stormcloak is a shit leader. _

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman awaits!” An Imperial soldier shouts.

Though she can’t find the general in the mixed crowd of onlookers and soldiers, she still hears him give a response, “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

She smiles. _So serious._ _Typical Imperial fashion. _

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.” Lorik begs the air.

Ralof nudges her with his foot. He peers over his shoulder and she follows his gaze to locate the general: a surprisingly short man with white hair and a fierce complexion befitting his title. Ralof snorts. “Look at him. General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this!...”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t surprise me.” She agrees half-heartedly and shrugs as the wagon pulls to a stop.

“This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with Juniper berries mixed in. Funny…When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

“I feel safe.” She grins ear-to-ear when Ralof shoots her a look. The lady shrugs and says, “What? Can’t help myself, I know how this is gonna go.”

Though she imagines Ralof writes her off as being cocky and confident: it’s hard _not_ to be cocky and confident when she knows how the scene is about to play out. 

And, sure enough, it comes to fruition: as the prisoners line up for a head count the horse thief attempts to make a break for it. Archers are called, the thief is shot dead, and a fair-skinned brown-haired nordic man by the name of Hadvar calls names one-by-one. The prisoners march left to await the chopping block until she is the only one left. She grins sheepishly as she approaches. By all Nine and Ten and however-many Divines Skyrim has, she can’t help but reminiscent looking at Hadvar. Though Ralof is usually her first choice between the two, she recalls eventually pairing up with Hadvar during _Skyrim’s _civil war storyline. Memories of how the two reigned Oblivion on Windhelm brings a soft smile to her lips.

Ulfrin Stormcloak is _truly_ her least favorite leader. _Tullius is just… more respectful. Sorry, Ulfric. Not helping you today, pal. I already did my Stormblade playthrough! _She adds as an afterthought.

Hadvar gives her a side-eye. She pauses. _Did he ask a question? _

“Dragonborn.” She states. “Dragonborn.”

“How is one like you from a place called _‘Dragonborn_?’ That makes no sense… _Captain!”_ The nordic man calls to his right, her left. “She’s not on the list! Claims to be from a place called _Dragonborn_, like the old legends! What do we do?”

“No—My name—” She groans internally. “My name is Dragonborn!”

“She claims her name is Dragonborn? Wench has lost her mind.” Nearby, an Imperial Soldier laughs.

_I’m not doing the civil war storyline this time, _she decides. The twenty-nine-year old huffs and holds her head up high as Hadvar’s superior finally shouts an answer.

“_Forget the list. _She goes to the block.” The captain’s voice sounds like an older lady.

“By your orders, Captain.” Hadvar pauses. “I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are given proper burial. Follow the captain, prisoner.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. As she walks up to rejoin her fellow prisoners, her hands begin to feel itchy and sore from being bound so tightly. She pauses the virtual reality and takes time to stretch and rub her wrists before she jumps back into her supposed final resting place. She spies Ralof giving her an amused smile. His raised brows accompanying the gesture make her grin in a manner too cheeky for real life. When he shakes his head she silently laughs.

_I really wish you had gone to the Imperial’s side, you handsome bastard. _She smiles.

As she watches the group of Imperial soldiers flanking them, she observes General Tullius stride up to Ulfric’s gagged body. The general has creases across his forehead and tired, heavy bags under his eyes. “Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Ulfric does not respond.

“Some here in Helgen call you a hero,” Tullius grits his teeth. “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!”

This time she hears what sounds like muffled grunts coming from Ulfric’s gag. She wonders if he is attempting to shout behind the gag. It would be a sight to see in the monotone of Helgen.

“You started this war,” Tullius continues as he stares the Jarl of Windhelm down. General Tullius’ eyes are vindictive and full of anger. “Plunged Skyrim into chaos—and now the Empire is going to _put you down _and restore the peace!”

In the distance—she hears a roar.

“What was that?” A soldier whispers.

“The World-Eater.” She mutters under her breath.

“Carry on.” Tullius turns and marches away.

“Yes, General Tullius!” The woman Hadvar previously regarded as the captain steps forward. She turns to a priestess standing near the headsman. The captain growls, “Give them their last rites.”

The Priestess adjusts her golden robes. She’s a beautiful lady and has a sincere look of sympathy for the prisoners. The dragonborn smiles politely at the lovely voice-acting that goes on, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius… Blessings of the Eight Divines upon you! For you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—”

“For the love of Talos, shut up,” she watches one Stormcloak soldier march forward. There’s not an ounce of fear in his voice when he’s made to kneel. “—Let’s get this over with.”

“As you wish.” The priestess backs away.

“Come on, I haven’t got all morning! My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?” The Stormcloak hisses as the blade of the headsman rises into the air.

It is just as gruesome as the first time she witnesses it: the execution sends a spray of blood and more deep red bubbles out of the stump left behind on the decapitated soldier’s torso. She spies brain stem, the spine, muscle and layers of fat as she eyes the corpse’s injuries. The body is dragged away but the head remains in the block; she knows when she kneels to ‘die’ she will get a fantastic view of it. Part of her cannot stop smiling at the atmosphere around her. Everyone is so _serious _except her! Can they not see the sun, the clouds, the beautiful rolling landscape outside Helgen? The mountains of Skyrim call to her! The flowers dance and trees sing her name! In the world of virtual reality, she is not confined by the chains of her life and marriage! In _Skyrim,_ she is free!

“Next—the fool of a woman!” The captain points at her.

“To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.” Hadvar steps next to her and speaks softly. The Imperial man walks her forward. His grip lingers a moment too long and she purposely finds opportune time to wink at him.

_I should have installed more mods for this… This feels vanilla. _The lady huffs to herself. When she passes by the armed Imperial soldiers she says, ‘Excuse me!’ and ‘Pardon me…’ like they are all old friends. She can hear some Stormcloaks hiding laughter. She feels the Imperials' irritation grow in the air until it is a thick, curdling force. An Imperial soldier shoves her forward and lets her fall unto the wooden post. She smiles warmly at the hooded executioner and winks at the priestess of Arkay nearby while waiting for the ‘end’ to trigger. _Arkay is the God of this priestess, right? Is she?_

“Hey, are you the priestess of Arkay? I want my last rites recited _backwards_.” She blurts out, feeling more jovial and youthful already. The priestess doesn’t answer. She feels giddy anyways; the game makes her feel ten years younger.

The executioner’s great guillotine of a weapon raises. The blade shines in the light. She hums a merry tune and wonders where to find a certain black-and-red jester as, in the distance, a roar rumbles through the air. Her eyes are alight with eagerness to _begin _the game as she observes a dangerous and deadly obsidian-black figure _crash_ unto the spire of the tower standing in front of the chopping block. Soldiers tumble back in shock and the executioner’s weapon falls to one side as she lifts her head up in time for the World Eater, son of Akatosh, the pitch-black divinity _Alduin _to roar and snarl words of dragon speech at her. She doesn’t remember what he says or if he says anything at all. She shouts a word of thanks and pushes herself up. Her bindings won’t be undone until _the_ keep, that she remembers for sure, so she opts to follow the call of Ralof’s voice into a nearby stone tower. While Alduin the World Eater begins to devastate the town of Helgen, she winks at Ralof and merrily looks around the first floor of the tower. To her side, a once-gagged Ulfric Stormcloak rubs his wrist and stares at her.

“I thought dragons were only in villages? No, wait… Legends?” She says the words before a non-playable-character speaks them, causing one of the so-called non-playable-characters to look at her in shock. The Dragonborn huffs. “What?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages.” The words are recited neatly. Whoever voiced Ulfric Stormcloak did a spectacular job; she makes a note to look him up whenever her husband goes to bed that evening.

With nothing else to do, she triggers Alduin breaking a hole into the tower’s walls fifteen feet up the inner staircase. His mouth appears and she lingers her gaze on the fine details before the dragon’s jaws snap at her. Ralof pulls her back in time. She gives him a half-grin of thanks and ignores the blast of heat that slams into them both as Alduin breathes fire with each spoken word. She can’t remember what the dragon speech is for breathing fire, but she knows where and how to obtain it later in the game and that’s enough to satisfy her.

A blast of ice from Imperial mages and a flurry of arrows from the Imperial archers prompts Alduin to turn his back on the group inside. Ralof points through the hole in the wall, where _another _hole in a _burning building _stands ready for her to leap. She grimaces at her poor ankles’ anticipatory pain, then leaps. Her legs give out on the landing and she yelps as she rolls and slams into a wooden shelf thankfully free of flames. The Dragonborn coughs and retches against the pain. Ralof helps her stand to her feet and urges her onward while he waits for the others to follow.

She tears out of the burning house. Ralof will be fine; she’s played the opening screen long enough to know he gets into the keep one way or another. A child screams to the side, conversation is had, and while she knows it’s _probably_ very interesting and not-at-all filler dialogue she ignores it and hurries on. Her hands really hurt. She resists pausing the game to stretch them, not when _the_ keep of Helgen is so close. The thought of feeling herself put on armor and play with weapons is too much for her to quit now; she indulges the need to continue playing and she pushes her tired video-game-self further than it wants to go. People continue crying out, Alduin continues firing streams of flame and jets of air, and she keeps walking despite the blisters on her feet. When the time comes to make another decision, she hesitates: Hadvar calls for her, the prisoner, to join him in one side of the Keep, but Ralof waves at her to hurry and holds the door open.

_It doesn’t matter, this choice. I still get to choose not to join anyone’s side. Ralof is cooler… And he doesn’t ask if I work at the docks when I choose to play as an Argonian… so. _Her thoughts take up time that is precious to everyone but her and Alduin; she stands mindlessly in the middle of a burning plaza with charred bodies littering the ground and a dragon in the sky. She may not join the Stormcloaks, but— _Sorry, Hadvar. Not this playthrough. _

Dragonborn the Dragonborn follows Ralof into the keep.


	2. except death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dragonborn the dragonborn goes to fight a dragon and learns she isn't nearly the badass hero she wants to be.

The game is harder than she remembers. Riverwood and Whiterun are simple enough, but the pursuit of a Dragonstone in Bleak Falls Barrow devours hours. She sneak-attacks each sleeping undead but finds the simplest of undead draugr require more precision than normal. Her blows are not as effective even with the use of elven weaponry and light enchantments. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the controls of virtual reality don’t impose the usual features she’s come to expect. Despite scrolling through multiple menu options and fiddling with controls, touch sensitivity, and brightness, nothing seems to fix the fact she doesn’t feel as _cool _as she wants. It bothers her; she leaves the difficulty on ‘_Adept’_ and practices slaughtering wildlife in the forest. Their pelts are converted to leather, leather molded into armor, and the armor reinforced with extra leather as she pours time into leveling up skills and unlocking perks in the hopes of finding a fix to her controller problems.

In the end it is for naught. When she delivers the Dragonstone to Dragonsreach Keep and into the waiting hands of a mister Farengar Secret-Fire, the mage thanks her kindly. She negotiates the price of tomes and buys a copy of a spell called _‘Magelight’_ off him. On her way out she is interrupted by none other than the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf. The orange-bearded fellow has a war-hammer strapped to his back over fine regal clothes that exuberate and emphasize both wealth and influence. With him is a lady with dark, dark skin and beautiful red eyes; Irileth. The Dragonborn is certain she’s romanced the elf at least one time using a mod, but right now no mod is installed that lets her court the tough-as-nails elven warrior.

“—A dragon’s been spotted nearby.” Irileth’s words ring out across the keep’s court. Guards stop mid-conversation and the Jarl of Whiterun sighs wearily. Both the Dragonborn and Farengar join Balgruuf and his advisor in the main hall.

Farengar’s stubbled face contains sheer joy. He grins at Irileth’s approach. “A dragon! A dragon! Where was it seen? _What was it doing?_”

Irileth tenses. She’s displeased by the wizard’s enthusiasm for a creature of devastating potential to threaten Whiterun’s populace. “”I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun I don’t know if we can stop it. Let’s go.”

“And who gave this report, Irileth? Which guard?” Balgruuf sits up on his throne and squints.

A nervous, sputtering mess of a guard steps forward. The lady’s eyes are peeled for shadows at every corner and her guards uniform is marred and tousled in a way that reminds the Dragonborn of singed clothing.

“So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?” An uneasy silence settles as all guards and advisors alike cease their chatter to listen.

The guard stammers. “Yes—Yes, my lord!”

“Tell him what you told me—about the dragon,” Irileth instructs. The dark elf’s eyes have no softness or concern as she stares the woman down.

“Uh… That’s… Right…” She swallows; the guard shudders in her place as she steps forward and bows her head. “We—We saw it coming from—From the south—It was _fast_—_faster than—_” The guard shakes her head and wipes at her eyes. “By the Divines, it was faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“What did it do?” Balgruuf’s exhale summarizes the thoughts of everyone in the room. “Did it attack the watchtower? Is it attacking the watch tower?”

“No—No, my lord—It just—” The lady shakes her head. “It was—It was _circling overhead_—When I left—I’ve never—Never ran so far—Fast—In my life—I thought it would come after me, for sure--!”

To the Dragonborn’s lack of surprise—this is a scripted cutscene after all—Jarl Balgruuf strokes his chin and waves the guard off. “Good work, daughter. We’ll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You’ve… earned it. Irileth,” the man glances at the dark elf. “By all the Divines—this time has finally come. You’d better gather some guardsmen and get down there—”

“Yeah, give me a few minutes with it. Thing will be dead quick _and_ easy,” The Dragonborn interrupts without a care for formalities and etiquette, much less respect to the scripted scene happening.

Her words draw gasps from a maid cleaning at the top of the stairs. She eyes the maid with amusement before the Dragonborn shrugs and smiles. She likes Whiterun; the inevitable battle between Whiterun and the Stormcloak army is one of the reasons she’s never liked taking the latter’s side during the civil war storyline. Balgruuf seems like an okay fellow for a rich guy; Maybe not the best leader but certainly better than who the Stormcloaks install. Then there is the whole issue with the Thalmor using Ulfric as a… _Get a grip. You are Dragonborn now! Like Dragonborn… This is one of the best fights in the game. It’s a classic from the 2010 era of gaming! _She grits her teeth.

Without another word she turns and marches out of Dragonsreach’s keep. Irileth follows her out. On the way to the west gate, the dark elf informs her of the dangers and importance of protecting Whiterun. She pretends to listen but stops to pick every flower the pair come across. Her smile is contagious and the occasional child running by joins in her grins. At one point, the Dragonborn forms a bouquet of mountain flowers in red-and-blue colors. She presents it as a gift to Irileth and huffs in annoyance when the dark elf throws it away.

“Why does everyone take this so seriously?” She complains under her breath. She knows the answer—it’s all scripted—but she finds joy in pushing the script to its limits, save corruption of her game file. _Skyrim _is one of the few times she has control over a situation! It’s her bread and butter when life is too overwhelming, when her husband is too painful or enraged, when her boss screams at her for clocking in one minute early despite clocking in an hour early himself… She _loves Skyrim _and she loves it for all it is and all it _can be_. Her joy knows no bounds. Nothing can stand in the way of her playthroughs!

Except death.

She dies on the first fight against the dragon after it knocks her fifteen feet off the western watchtower’s spire. She falls and cracks her head open, her spine breaks at ninety-degrees, and the world around her slows. A menu pops up and for a moment she feels the connection to the outer world _pull_. She feels her fingers on the mouse, her hand hovering the keyboard, and her rear firmly planted in the most comfortable, cushioned swivel-chair she has ever had the fortune of owning. She feels herself relax. The mouse moves to _continue _and she groans at the realization she never saved.

The start goes the same as the first time around. She wakes in a cart, the cart goes to Helgen, Ralof is there, Lorik is shot, Ulfric is gagged, Alduin arrives in the nick of time to save her ass, and the world of Helgen ends in fire and blood as she escapes through a keep and travels to Riverwood. One Bleak Falls Barrow later, the Dragonborn hands over the Dragonstone tablet _again. _She manages to smile at Farengar. “Sorry, couldn’t get it to you the first time.”

“The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way. My associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. And I—I will not forget this. You can use my enchanter’s table and alchemy laboratory any time,” the court wizard intones with a nod. “Now if you excuse us...”

Client—Delphine. She recounts the name with ease. _Also known as the blonde woman who wants me to murder Parthuurnax and piss off every bearded old guy on High… However you say that name._

“Jarl Balgruuf!” This time the conversation informing Balgruuf is different. A male guard is the messenger alerting the leader of Whiterun.

She steps out of Farengar’s chambers and rejoins Irileth, the Jarl, and the guards of his court in the main room. Her eyes drift not to any of the non-playable-characters but to the sweet rolls and stringy taffy atop a nearby table. When she thinks no one is looking, she sneaks over and stuffs all the goodies in her pack. She returns to the meeting of men and lady a little happier and ready for the coming fight. Her head is held high, her eyes aloft in confidence, and she smiles the same snarky smile as news of a _dragon _spread across Dragonsreach keep. Her lips curl into a smile and she doesn’t bother waiting for anyone to ask her for help as she turns and heads for the keep’s doors. She hears Irileth gather guards before following, but the dark elf and her guards catch up when the Dragonborn stops to put together another bouquet of mountain flowers.

This time Irileth shoves the bouquet into the hands of a confused guard. The Dragonborn grins.

Her new method for defeating the damn flying lizard above her is to hide in the remains of the western watchtower until the dragon stops targeting her. She pulls an arrow back on her bow string and aims steadily until the dragon lands twenty feet out of the tower doors. Thinking quickly, she lets the arrow fly free and the Dragonborn dives to the side right before the frost dragon’s chilly gale freezes the spot where she was just at. She notches another arrow in her bow and takes a deep breathe. The sound of a guard dying a horribly painful—albeit quick—death fills her ears and lets her know when to turn the corner of the door frame to shoot the next arrow. This arrow punctures the dragon’s right shoulder and the creature shouts at her in words of Dragonspeech.

She has no idea what it is saying. _Maybe sorry. Probably sorry. I hope it apologizes. I know I would if I looked like that._

In virtual reality, she knows it is likely cussing her out or screeching for her flesh. She prepares her next arrow and lands it on the dragon’s side. Two more arrows follow with the ducking and diving of her body between freezing-cold blasts of air. When she runs out of arrows, she grabs a dagger, aims, and chucks it off the top. The dragon lifts its head in time to see the blade flip wildly through the air but not quick enough to dodge it. Though it tries to roll out of the way, the action causes the dragon’s soft throat to be exposed and the blade splits its throat in two.

It drops to the ground in a heap of dust and snow flurries. The dragon gurgles incoherent syllables as she climbs down the western watchtower and emerges outside by its corpse. She sucks in a breath and steels herself for the inevitable. After a minute passes, the dragon’s flesh peels away like paint chips off an old wall. What looks like mist rushes at her and envelops her entire body in warmth; she gasps and claws at her throat and chest to no avail. She waits for the sensation to drop from her body and soon she is left with a heavy coldness that occasionally stirs inside her bones.

The dragon’s soul melds with her own. She huffs and puffs her way over to a bloodied Irileth. The Dragonborn smiles at the sight of Irileth tending to an injured Stormcloak lady. _You have weird ways of showing you care for your subordinates. _

“What was that!?” A guard shouts and runs over. His uniform appears unfazed and untouched despite the destruction caused by the deceased dragon.

_He must be scripted to appear? _The Dragonborn bites her lip. She shrugs off the strange feeling that flicks the inside of her head. _Nevermind._

She feels the eyes of all guards and of Irileth staring her down. The Dragonborn flushes and rubs the back of her head. Her long, dark hair is sticky and full of clumps from time spent running out of Helgen, through Riverwood, and all the way to Whiterun—nevermind the damn Barrow!

“I, uh…” She pauses. “That was me killing a dragon?”

“What came out of it?” Irileth demands to know and her tone makes it hard to lie.

She fumbles with her bow and momentarily spaces out as her memory fails to recall how the different dialogue options go during this conversation. She eventually shrugs. “Weird, glowy stuff. It flowed out of the dragon’s body and practically _impaled _me. Can you believe it? Wonder what it could all mean… Guess no one will ever know…”

“Dragonborn!” A guard shouts.

“Yes. My name.” She huffs. “I am Dragonborn—”

“No, you _are _Dragonborn!” The same guard retorts.

She’s reminded why she picked the name. It is not out of redundancy or lack of original titles. She smiles faintly at the amusing notion that comes to mind whenever someone addresses her: _I am Dragonborn the Dragonborn. Hah. I predicted my own role in life! That’s so funny. At least to me. I wonder if there’s a mod that makes these non-playable characters laugh with me at my poor jokes. _

Her grin returning, she nods at the guard and turns to Irileth. Dragonborn the Dragonborn shoves her thumb to her breastplate as she declares, “Yeah, guess there's no point in beating around the bush! I am Dragonborn the Dragonborn! You better fucking acknowledge it. I slayed the flying beast and now I have been recognized by the Divines as the one spoken of in pro--”

Loud rumbles of thunder crack the air and spread across the clouds. She jumps and shivers; it is still daylight in Skyrim but she feels as if the air was knocked from her lungs. She’s about to speak when she remembers what the sounds mean. The Dragonborn inhales sharply and smiles at everyone before beginning to back away, “Well, those ol’ Greybeards just called me, so I got to go and prove myself by walking a triathlon in a day up a mountain in sub-zero temperatures… I hope you don’t need me for anything else?” Her manners leave her cursing internally as Irileth steps forward.

The dark elf is tough and full of beauty. Her musculature makes the Dragonborn exhale sharply at the thought of feeling it, skin-on-skin… _No, no, breathe. No mods installed to allow that kind of romancing. I have a world to save. I have quests to do. I gotta walk seven-thousand steps! _She chides herself for having the nerve to even look at Irileth in such a way. The dark elf deserves better than a horny twenty-nine-year-old lady who names herself after her job.

“Let us return to Dragonsreach, Dragonborn.” Irileth speaks firmly. It’s not an official order but the Dragonborn knows it’s an order.

She nods meekly and looks away as Irileth leads the injured survivors of the Whiterun guard back into Whiterun. Though she’s kept pre-occupied for several long hours of the night by Jarl Barlgruuf’s incessant speech and the appointing of the title of ‘Thane’ upon the Dragonborn, the Dragonborn’s mind is far, far from trifling topics. In her mind she makes a list of all the quests she wants to accomplish in the current playthrough. At the very top she decides to start with her favorite: a night to remember, featuring her favorite Daedric Prince, Sanguine.


	3. very strong stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she's never been good with alcohol; she knows better. that's why she's in an inn with a daedric prince engaged in a drinking contest.

It’s a routine.

Early morning: scout out the wildlife surrounding Whiterun. Noontime: Skin pelts, collect alchemy ingredients, hunt mud-crabs. The early afternoon and evening hours she spends tracking down the appropriate merchants to trade with and buy materials from. Next, the raw items are melted down and turned into jewelry—her preferred method for leveling up smithing—daggers, armor, or arrows. She doesn’t get much chance to practice archery but the Dragonborn doesn’t mind; the sneak attacks she practiced in Bleak Falls Barrow have significantly helped her muscle memory as-is with making quick shots. As with most of her _Skyrim _evenings and nights, the latter part of it is packed full of sneaking around, pickpocketing—thank all eight-hundred deities for her position as Thane of Whiterun, lest she be thrown in prison for a hundred years—and eventual breaking in with a side dish of _light_ burglary.

It’s not an easy task but she knows she must level up more. While she finds it harder to bring up a skill tree or select her level-ups in menus, the Dragonborn can still _feel _her vitality increase, her stamina deepen, or her magicka swell with vigor when a level-up occurs. Though she initially tries to keep track of the level-ups, she loses sight of what number she is on after the seventh or eighth one. Her head hurts at the thought and she finds it a damn struggle to try and finagle her way to the game menu.

As the weeks tick by, the time between each level-up increases in greater and greater quantities. Her pockets grow deeper but never deep enough for Whiterun’s sole real estate; Breezehome. Her archery remains as is but she negotiates her way to a quivers worth of elven arrows in two days. Thanks to the quick quest for the lady blacksmith at Warmaiden’s, she also has friends popping up across Whiterun that are happy to see her. It’s good to feel wanted. She indulges in the feelings to the point she cannot resist scurrying up and down the great marble stairs to Dragonsreach and hastily employing herself to anyone who looks at her twice. A giant must be slain? She finds time to venture north on Thursday. A group of bandits won’t clear out? Not a problem, she’s fond of using her daggers. Potions and ingredients are delivered to Arcadia, promises made to the old lady selling jewelry, and within few weeks of in-game time she has all but the Companions and old lady to worry about.

_I don’t want to worry about becoming a werewolf right now._ She bites her lip at the thought and averts her gaze when she sees one of the warriors training in the sparring yard.

Unfortunately for the old jeweler, she knows she cannot bring the lady’s Stormcloak son home. To do so requires venturing far north and to the west where the snow is tenfold and the dragons even more vicious. She knows the fort has Thalmor guards stationed and her body aches at the thought of what the mages might do to her if she so much as looks at them the wrong way. Despite her heart wanting to help the jeweler, she can’t. She doesn’t. She leaves that quest alone and open in the event she pursues hitching up with the Imperial army in the civil war storyline, as she recalls reading a guide in the past mentioning a non-violent way to save the Stormcloak soldier… but that’s _if _she ever does the storyline.

In the evening of one particularly stressful day, she heads to the Bannered Mare Inn at the center of Whiterun. The lanterns of the city are lit but clouds cover the sky and leave the world a gloomy gray. She smiles at the barkeeper as she enters the inn and begins to saddle over when she stops at the sight of an unusual man.

_Pale skin, brown hair. Middle-aged man. Black robes…? Wait. Wait, I know him. _She half-gawks at her luck. The bard in the bar sings _terribly _but she finds the tune appropriate for what she’s about to do.

By all Divines, she can’t fight off the desire to mess with the game’s script—even when she knows better! Mods are one thing but attempting to manipulate and warp the game itself is a different playing field. She knows it can corrupt her save or cause world-breaking glitches that would otherwise force her to delete the game anyways. _But that’s Sanguine! Err… Sam Guevenne. Sam Guenne? Sam. _The Dragonborn smiles too widely for her own good. She knows she must look like a spectacular fool but she’s _so _excited at the sight of her favorite Daedric Prince—in _disguise_.

She feels young again. Like she isn’t about to hit thirty, like she isn’t wasting her prime with a lowlife asshole that hits as hard as he bites. She needs to play _Skyrim _to be distracted. She needs to relinquish herself to the Nordic world and its beautiful landscapes, rich lore, and off-note bards. If that means striding up and engaging her favorite Daedric Prince in a little conversation… Then by all Divines, by Jesus and Joseph, by Mary Magdalene and the Mormon Church and every other religion-related she can’t remember off the top of her head, she _wants _to talk to him. She wants to spin the conversation of a drinking contest a different way! See what happens! Maybe the developers added some other lines of dialogue that were never used—this is her chance to unearth those bytes of sound!

Part of her writes it off as her need for obtaining a semblance of control in her downward spiral of a life. She ignores that part of her brain, puts on a smile, and unconsciously smooths down her armor over her tunic.

It’s hard not to squeal when she walks up to ‘Sam.’ She ignores him at first and orders a drink at the bar. The barmaid—Saadia this time around, a Redguard with beautiful brown skin and a flowing dress—huffs at her. “Six septims.”

_Trying to rip off my wallet more like… Six entire septims? Why did I spend my gold on arrows and giant’s toes? I can make my own arrows. I can cut off giant toes myself! _She cradles her head in her hands after pushing the gold pieces over. She hears someone approach the bar and sit next to her but when she looks up it’s not Sam, merely one of the guards calling Saadia back to the counter.

She doesn’t _actually_ intend to drink anything when Saadia hands her a mug of mead. She’s never been one for drinking since she was teenager. Her dad is—was, according to the obituary posted two months back—an alcoholic throughout her youth and he never shaped up to be the father she needed. She views his untimely death of liver failure as nothing but karma. Part of her blames the dead man for never teaching her signs of an abusive relationship. That train of thought triggers a physical reaction in the Dragonborn; she begins to grit and grate her teeth together while strings of courses run through her head. Her self-control wanes and she reaches for her drink before turning away and chucking it into the fire.

“That’s another four septims for the cup, Dragonborn!” A Nordic lady whose hair sings of auburn and chestnut hues appears in front of her and thrusts a hand in her face. She grumbles and shoves four pieces of gold at Hulda.

“You look like someone who can hold their liquor.” She recognizes his voice and turns to look without thinking.

There, in the glory of flesh and man, he’s taken the form of what she thinks is a Breton. The pale skin has a faint tan—never burnt—despite her beliefs that the Prince has never spent a day in the sun all his life. His robes have a faint shimmer of red over the black velvet, no doubt enchanted to the _highest degree _for the Lord of Debauchery, and though she can’t see his choice in shoes she doesn’t doubt he’s wearing the Skyrim equivalent of designer boots in that moment. His soft hair looks impressively unimpressive to her eyes. She tries not to stare but finds that even as a _man _the Daedric Prince is positively alluring; his presence alone spikes her interest in ways that cross the lines she has yet to draw in the sand.

_Why should I, anyways? He’s… _She trails off as the Daedric Prince lifts a Breton hand.

“Now, now. How about a little drinking game?” Sam the _Definitely-Not-Sanguine_ offers her in a sing-song voice. He sounds merry and ready for the night of drunken pranks his quest entails. “A friendly contest to win a—”

“A staff?” She mumbles without thinking it through.

In that moment she can feel the _change _in _Skyrim_. It’s not the first time. Her mind recounts to her most recent playthrough where Ulfric Stormcloak gave her a strange side-eye after she spoke out of turn. This change, though, feels different: it’s a stronger and more nimble _pull _that nearly throws the Dragonborn off her feet. She sways and reaches out for something to grab unto. Her hand falls on Sam’s robes and she nearly pulls him over if not for his hands catching and pulling her up. His eyes hold a very _strange _sort of gaze, like he’s looking at her and through her and into her for hints and tricks and all the other nonsense she imagines he would find in her hellhole. Seconds crawl by before she realizes where her hands remain. She gently shoves him away. Her face is lit by the heat in her cheeks and she pleads silently to Akatosh and the angel Gabriel alike that her flustered demeanor isn’t easy to perceive.

“Yeah. A staff. _If _you win,” Sam finally says. His hands return to his sides. His smile falters long enough for her to realize he’s catching on.

_Now I need to relax. _Her brows furrow. _Am I actually thinking this? Worrying this way? He's catching on? No, he's scripted. Besides, I can leave this game at any time, delete this save file, and start over. I am the last individual in this scripted mess to worry about something bad happening. _Even if it happens to involve her favorite Daedric Prince. She has the power and authority in this playthrough. _She _is the one capable of ending the world of Skyrim with a pull of her PC cord.

Her composure returns and she grunts. “Yeah, a staff, been hearing things about them lately. Makes sense. What are you think…” She curses internally when Sam’s cheeky smile returns.

He pulls two cups out of a robe sleeve.

A bottle of wine follows.

She snorts loudly. She feels calm enough to resume sassy and sarcastic comments. “Nice magic trick.”

“That’s not all the tricks I know.” Sam’s voice goes from smug to soft in seconds as he adds, _“Dragonborn.” _

She freezes, she stares, and she looks around in confusion. No one else reacts. It is as if she is the only one capable of interacting and responding to his words. She doesn’t recall introducing herself as Dragonborn—either by name or by title—but she puts that aside upon the realization at least two-thirds of the town know her by name _and_ title. Word gets around.

“I accept your offer.” The Dragonborn voices her response loudly. She sits at a table and half-kicks the chair across her. If she’s drinking alcohol for a Daedric artifact it is going to be on her terms.

Sam sits in the chair next to her.

She grits her teeth and jabs a finger at him. “I intend to win this staff.”

“Ha! We’ll see about that,” Sam belts out laughter, loud and raucous. He pours them both a shot and raises it to toast hers. “This is a _special brew_, very strong stuff. Let’s get started.”

She isn’t letting him win. Before the not-Daedra can lift the glass to _his _lips she snatches it out of his hand and downs both his and her drinks. He laughs again and slaps her back in satisfaction. “One down, my friend. One down. Can’t count that as two when you drank _mine_ as well… But I’ll match your spirit!” Sam’s words come with a wink. He pours a shot, drinks, and pours a second shot that is downed in seconds.

_Thish… Thish very strom… _Her thoughts grow dizzy. _Not how ish… posed… go? _

“Your turn!” Sam calls, pushing another glass of wine over to her side of the table.

Her hand reaches for it immediately. She can’t stop herself from lifting it to her lips and drowning in the cool liquid. It sends shivers down her spine. She shoves the bottle away and it falls off the table with a crash, spilling the crimson liquid everywhere. She pulls herself out of the chair and sways dangerously. Her hands flail and she crashes to the ground unto Sam, tearing and clawing weakly at him and his damn definitely-Daedric influences of hedonism and debauchery.

Her eyes narrow and she forces through garbled lips and a twisted tongue, “Shangwen. Samguinn. _Sanguine!” _

The entire world fades to black as something rips her from the virtual reality. She comes out of the game with a gasp and need for air. She sees the eyes of the man she married; they possess no light or humor as her husband’s hands reach for her and his mouth opens to scream. She can’t help but let her mind drift far away in the hours that follow, mind lost on the last image of her Skyrim playthrough: the intrigued face of Sam Guevenne.


	4. just indulge in him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks to virtual reality, the option to indulge is there. it's a very tempting option given who is her friend at the bannered mare inn.

It takes a week before she can pick up the game again. She’s lucky enough to not have to replace her computer, only her phone, and she more than thanks Allah she only has two holes in the wall to seal opposed to the alternative. When she wraps up the week of work and back-breaking faux courtesy of the world of retail, she learns of her husband attending a sports game late into the crisp Saturday night. It’s the news she’s waited for. She finishes her list of chores, cracks open a diet Pepsi, and sits down at her PC after eating supper. The headphones go on and _Skyrim _comes up. She activates the virtual reality feed and feels herself pulled into the darkness.

The joy of having a break is only lessened at the realization of all she must redo. Her inability to save before exiting last time knocks her back to post-dragon fight outside Riften. It takes several in-game weeks before she is at the same level as before. She only bothers with half the Riften quests this time around. The Dragonborn pumps her time into smithing levels and focuses on archery over alchemy. Instead of wasting all her time hunting wildlife she takes to practicing her thu’um and mastering her dragon speech shouts. To her surprise, she does not need to visit word walls if she remembers the dragon speech words. She successfully _fus ro dah, _or Unrelenting Forces, a poor sabre cat that doesn’t take no for an answer. She mumbles a quiet apology when the poor animal goes flying thirty feet and falls to the ground in a bloody heap.

When she finds the courage to enter the Bannered Mare Inn again, she finds Sam Guevenne is not there. Her heart sinks. She orders a bowl of stew and a glass of water from the barmaid before sauntering to a corner table. Her head hangs in her hands and she sighs to herself as the chatter of other bar patrons fills her ears. Once again, the bard that sings the Dragonborn song is off-key! Once again, Saadia yells at her for the four septims after she knocks over her cup of _water _and it cracks. Once again… She hears a voice. It’s right behind her, breathing on the back of her ear, and it feels hot, heavy, and powerful.

_“You_ look like someone who could hold their liquor.” His words are provoking, “How about a friendly little contest to win a staff?”

When she opens her mouth, before any words spill, she knows it is a mistake. She can’t stop the impulse. She wants to talk to him, to probe him, and to seek out every bit of information she can about her favorite Daedric Prince. She blurts out, “I know the list of ingredients to repair the staff.”

She has a flashback to the time just before her _spouse _rudely forced her out of the game and set her back several levels. She makes a note to save after the conversation and preserve her work. Her thoughts wither at the sight of Sam’s brows scrunched up. His friendly smile lingers but there’s a tug at the corner of his lips she would be tempted to touch if his eyes weren’t _wowing _her.

“You didn’t let me get to the good part. Too bad.” Sam straightens upright and takes a seat next to her.

With her sitting closest to the wall and him directly next to her—she is effectively boxed in. She stiffens at the realization that it _must _be intentional.

“My friend, you are brave. Or foolish. But _amusing_, yeah?” The ‘Breton’ pours himself a glass of wine. She doesn’t recall seeing the bottle before that moment, or the wineglasses that the sanguine liquid is poured into.

“I’m not drinking it.” She states.

“But if you were—what’d you think would happen?” He lifts a brow and smiles again. His lips make her swallow suddenly.

_I’ve been forgetting he’s a Daedric Prince. He’s… He’s much more powerful than he makes himself out to be. Why did I think I could ask him silly questions and get serious answers? _She pushes her glass away. Her eyes shut as thought after thought swarms her mind. It doesn’t help with his intoxicating presence. Her inhibitions feel lowered and against better judgement she begins to blab just what she knows would happen.

“Three drinks. A contest involving three drinks. Three for me, but two for you,” She answers him slowly. “Two because you bow out before the third. And _I’m _the light weight? Nah. You lose that drinking game, bud. I win. I will want the staff, but I guess I get to pass out before that happens. Before… Ugh.” Her hands reach up to rub her forehead in small circles. Foretelling a scripted future is a lot more hassle than it is worth.

Fabric rustles nearby.

“My friend—what are you? Do you know?” The Daedric Prince whispers into her ear. She gawks at the proximity. When did he get close? When did she stop paying attention to her surroundings?

Sam moves away and sits back in his chair. He lounges like an embodiment of sloth itself. His eyes bear holes into her own. She can’t stand to look away lest he get close again. He’s too handsome for his own good, too full of himself for her to pass up, and too much _fun _for the Dragonborn to consider any other Daedra in her playthrough. He’s the one she wants to present her loyalty to. She’s shoved more than that at him before thanks to mods and mayhem. She swallows again at the temptation to ruin her game and push the scripted encounter to its limits. _I could… do anything here. Mod or not… I can influence this world. It’s my game. Whatever I want… _

“Morvunskar.” She whispers aloud.

She pushes her chair back, ignores Saadia shouting her name, and stands. To her surprise he stands too. Even as a Breton the damn Daedra is taller by a foot! She holds back a remark and looks up at him. “Excuse me.”

“What did you say before?” Sam inquires politely.

She puts a hand up to his chest and pushes him out of her way. “It’s your gate to one of those Myriad Realms. Your plane of Oblivion. It’s at Morvunskar—the gate is, I mean. That’s where I would meet you if we… took this all the way.”

“Well, well. You thinking about taking me all the way, Dragonborn?”

It’s not until another bar patron wolf-whistles does Sam’s devilish grin register. Her jaw hangs open and she snaps it shut after standing frozen for several seconds at what was just said. Her face burns in embarrassment and shameful consideration of what _she_ said. She walked herself into that one! The thought nags at the back of her mind, _He may be my favorite, but… That doesn’t… I don’t even have the mod installed for that kind of romancing! I shouldn’t be pressing my luck like this!_

But he’s there. He stands in front of her. His eyes lock unto hers and she holds his gaze.

_He’s the Prince of Debauchery. Hedonism. Self-Indulgences—Zeus, I could just indulge in him, couldn’t I? I don’t need a mod. Not when I can just… _Her thoughts trail off. While she later blames it on the alcohol, for a moment she loses herself and who she is in the depths of _Skyrim _and its Daedric Princes. Her hands grab the collar of Sam Guevenne’s robes and she pulls him down to eye level. The act is long enough to steal a kiss from his lips. When the moment passes, she retreats before her thoughts and feelings get her into more trouble. As she ducks out of the inn, she swears she can hear _Sam_ say something to her, but her mind is too lost in a mess of conflicted feelings to listen, let alone care.


	5. god, ahwahscalahdeela, kara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she dies a lot and comes to terms with the fact she needs to stay away from alcohol. easier said than done.

Wandering into the middle of the Skyrim wilderness is a piss poor decision, she reckons, as the alcohol does her in just outside Whiterun’s walls and out of sight of the guards. She knows better than to indulge in that manner, but her family history of alcoholism does nothing to pick her up and help move her along. She lies on the ground in a state of unconsciousness until a local sabre cat makes lunch. By the time she’s coming to—it’s too late. She finds not the holy temple of _Dibella _in Markarth greeting her but the creaking of a wood cart. There’s no beautiful ladies to chide and scold her for a night of drunk pranks; her hands are bound and the sunlight of Skyrim pours into the day all around her. She winces at the sound of soft talking and pinpoints the voice belonging to Ralof.

_Oh, not again… I died, didn’t I? Why didn’t the menu come up? _She wants to cradle her head in her hands but the bindings on her wrists are secure. _Maybe the game is bugged. Was it my use of fus ro dah before activating their word walls? Or was it me shoving my horny ass at a Daedric Prince? By the six Divines… I broke my game trying to suck off Sanguine’s lips? All that work for nothing? I need to avoid the alcohol! It won’t even give me the buffs I need for a mage-archer stealth build! _She chides herself all the way to Helgen.

It’s a blur of repetition and high-quality voice-acting. She decides to change her name when Hadvar calls her forward and inquires her origins and title.

“I am…” She grins. “God.”

“God? What kind of name is that? One from…” As Hadvar questions the logic of the name, God the Dragonborn huffs and marches past him to join the other prisoners.

At least it’s funny to _her_. She finds amusement in the small details of Skyrim. Her cheesy grin is shot off when Alduin arrives too early for an unnamed Stormcloak’s death. She grimaces inwardly. _Better not be broken again. I just restarted! I have zero interest in listening to Ralof blab about ancestors and Ulfric Stormcloak’s greatness!_

As it turns out she _does _have to listen to Ralof defend the ‘Future High King’ of Skyrim again. While God the Dragonborn escapes from Helgen, she overestimates her abilities in stealth. An undead draugr impales her on its ancient Nordic blade in Bleak Falls Barrow and she is forced to repeat the opening cutscene again. When Hadvar calls her forward and asks for her name she purposely draws out the encounter in slow replies and stammers, trying to stall for Alduin to get there and kick things off.

“—How do you spell that?” The brown-haired man tilts his head at her.

She sighs. “How do you not know this name?”

“She’s not on the list—” Hadvar interjects and calls the captain over. His voice drops to a hush. “She’s not cooperating, captain. I think she might be more trouble than she’s worth.”

Ahwahscalahdeela the Dragonborn dies by the Captain’s sword before she can protest.

When the cart pulls into Helgen for what feels like the sixteenth time in one day, she keeps an eye out for any oddities and abnormalities patterning the textures of the world. Virtual reality has its bugs and once she gets out of the game, she intends to leave a _scathing_ complaint online over the issues she’s having.

Lokir the horse thief is shot with more arrows than usual. There’s two priestesses present to dictate last rites and rituals instead of one. The executioner isn’t wearing a hood. There are no clouds in the sky, but the sunlight seems lesser. The day is gloomy. The tiny details she would otherwise skip over compounds into a mental list. She frowns and watches Ralof but this time he doesn’t give her any weird looks or stares. Neither does Ulfric Stormcloak. Not even the white-haired general of the Imperial army, General Tullius, gives her the barest recognition. She begins to question if she’s invisible when the familiar voice of Hadvar cuts through the crowd.

“Next prisoner!” He shouts.

She walks up to him and smiles weakly. She has a headache from dying so many times and she wants to lie down and nap for eight days. As Hadvar’s dark eyes look her up and down she begins to fidget.

“State your name, prisoner.” The man points at her with a quill pen.

She inhales deeply. “Kara.”

“Kara?”

“Kara—Yes, do you not listen?” Kara the Dragonborn grits her teeth. She shakes her head and ignores the look Hadvar gives her when he ushers her to await the chopping block.

Three Stormcloak prisoners die before Alduin arrives. The dragon breathes flame instead of shouting the clouds to appear overhead. Her hair is frayed and ruined. Soot stains her skin as she escapes into the keep with Hadvar instead of Ralof. Though Hadvar tries to recruit her to the Imperial army afterward, she ignores him and splits off. She waits until nightfall and loots Riverwood for all its worth, save the inn. When daybreak comes, she begins the trek to Whiterun. The food she took doesn’t taste worse for wear regardless of its origins.

En route to Whiterun, she encounters bandits sent after her for the theft in Riverwood. Though bandits are always annoying she does not find them difficult until they begin downing healing potions and rising to fight her a second time. The Dragonborn forces herself to shout _fus _early; use of the shout barely gives her enough time to recover. The bandit’s fall to her stolen blade and she exchanges her hijacked goods for legitimate armor and weapons.

Whiterun is surprisingly normal. She doesn’t find anything off about it as she runs through basic quests and simple tasks over a series of days. When she feels herself strong enough, she visits Jarl Balgruuf’s court mage and accepts the quest for the Dragonstone. The road to Bleak Falls Burrow is long and she makes several detours along the way for new alchemy ingredients, mining ore, and hunting the occasional elk that crosses her path. This time around she refuses to let the undead guards of the Barrow get the best of her and she sets any Draugr that strays too close on _fire. _Half the tomb is in flames and the other half mixed with ash-stained ice by the time she leaves the Burrow, bow in one hand and Dragonstone tablet in the other.

Her destruction magic makes her feel alive. It’s a delicious, indulgent feeling.

When she relays the ancient stone relic to Whiterun's court wizard, he smiles and nods in approval. “Not as unreliable as those others sent my way. You have my thanks. If you need anything—”

She shrugs. “Nah. I’ll pass. I get to go fight a dragon now.”

“A dragon? Here in Whiterun?” Farengar’s interest is piped immediately. His knuckles clench white around the Dragonstone tablet in his hands.

She’s grateful for the Whiterun guard interrupting the court room to announce a dragon sighting near Whiterun. It’s imperative to her ability to fight she gets access to more shouts as quickly as possible. The Dragonborn follows Irileth and a pack of Whiterun guards out of the town’s western gate. She marches in their step to the ruins of a crumpled stone watchtower. While guards warn her and the others to stay back, she refuses. She shoots a fireball into the air to announce _her _arrival. When the dragon roars in acknowledgement and challenge, she smiles and fits an arrow in her bow.

After the fight—surprisingly short and disappointing compared to the undead of Bleak Falls Barrow—she half-asses her way out of dialogue and strolls to the inn. She’s begun a journal with a list of all the bugs and glitches she’s encountered in enemies, environment, and dialogue. When Saadia greets her warmly at the Battered Mare Inn, she groans and adds another bug to the pages of her writing. Her composure is unnerved. She’s dusted in grime, covered in the stench of dragon guts, and receives questioning looks from everyone but Saadia. Kara exhales sharply at one particularly nasty leer and turns her back to the firepit of the ground floor.

_Everyone can stare. They’ll forget this in a day or two. Or—maybe I’ll just die again. That would be annoying. _She hesitates at the drink pushed in front of her.

“Just water.” Saadia holds a strange smile and flits away.

The Dragonborn sighs. She picks it up and drinks it with a need for more. Every drop refreshes her and soothes her aches but leaves her stomach empty. As she sits at the bar and drums fingers on the wooden counter in contemplation, her decision for an appropriate meal is forcibly dismissed. Her attention shifts to a man that sits next to her.

“You look like someone who can hold their liquor.” The grinning face of a man that is _definitely _a Daedric Prince in disguise greets her.

She stares.

“I need to look at the prerequisite for your spawn when I am out of here.” The Dragonborn blurts out her thoughts. She slaps her hands over her mouth and flushes in embarrassment as Sam Guevenne laughs. _Thank God this isn’t one of the more serious Daedric Princes. I bet I would be slain on the spot. Or worse. This is why Sanguine is the best one. That and his quest is... _She trails off in thought as Sam Guevenne carries on talking like she’s actively listening.

“How about a friendly little contest for a magic staff, eh? You, me, a bottle or two—first to stop loses. Winner takes the staff.” The dialogue is off but she doesn’t dare write it down in front of him. She peers at the Breton. He’s watching her with an intense curiosity. The gleam of Sam’s eyes nearly filters through her soul.

“Will I regret it?” She inquires. Her brows furrow. “Will I regret saying yes to this?”

“No.” Sam Guevenne continues smiling. “This is a special brew, very strong stuff. But it won’t _kill_ you—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Something about the way he enunciates his words and strings sentences together makes her stomach twist and her heart stop. Her head feels dizzy. She makes for his robes and pulls him gently to her, daring to look the disguised Daedric Prince in the eyes. He isn’t unnerved. He’s curious and amused. She likes that about him.

“You’re on.” She releases him before she gives in to the desire to lean in closer and press kisses to his skin, to _indulge_…

_If I do this quest right, things will stop being weird around her. Things will cease. It’s only a few drinks… _Her heart thumps wildly. Her light-headedness lingers. She exhales and watches the man pour them both a glass. She chugs it down and eyes him.

His laughter is nice and lively. Other patrons at the bar appear to catch on to the drinking contest at hand and begin placing bets and cheering for one or the other. Sam Guevenne gives them a side-ways glance before his eyes flicker back to hers and his lips curl into the dark, devilish smile that makes her fidget. “One down.”

“One down.” She breathes. “Feel free to tap out early."

“One glass in? Nah…” Sam grins.

The second glass takes longer to finish. She gasps for air after downing the entire cup and slams her empty drink on the bar counter. Nearby, the bard of the Bannered Mare Inn incites a chorus of cheers and shouts of approval. Though she appreciates the encouragement, Kara turns and finds Sam Guevenne already finished with his second glass. He doesn’t look bothered by the alcohol and she wonders if he ever was in all the playthroughs she’s done of his quest. Something in her gut reels at the thought that all of it was a trick; perhaps she doesn’t know his limit and perhaps he knows hers?

_I’m butt to make a foosh of my sath… _The alcohol hits her hard and she sways. Her hand reaches out for Sam Guevenne and latches on to his shoulder. She burps loudly in his face and breaks into hysterical laughter. “Nesh one! One! Moor!”

She knows now why alcoholism is such a problem in her family. Her genetics seep out and reach for it like a leech demanding blood. Her family problems loom over her head and do nothing but incite feelings of despair, inadequacy, and self-deprecation; those emotions fuel a cycle of hate and abuse that pump and push and throw her toward the bottles. She can’t stop herself from grabbing a third shot. And, despite bile rising in the back of her throat, she forces a fourth glass of wine down and swallows it with gurgles and lazy pointing.

Her vision tilts. She can’t make right of who is or wasn’t or is now Sam Guevenne. She claws at the bar and her hands lock unto a glass. It’s offered to her by a man in black robes with a strange gleam in his eyes. If that’s Sam—she likes how he looks. Her smile teeters and she waves the man closer. When he obliges she makes a grand display of filling her mouth with mead, swirling it around, and swallowing it. She is pat on the back, slapped on her arm and shoulders, and she finds herself very close to the man in robes. He holds a sixth drink for her. She accepts it with a loose laugh.

She stops drinking it halfway. The remaining alcohol she holds in her mouth as clumsy hands reach for the man’s face. She kisses him in a mess of mashed lips and alcohol dribbling down her chin. Her intention to shove mead into his mouth is lost when he pulls back. The rest of the inn has settled by this point and no more cheers erupt as her vision begins to spin. She protests in incoherent syllables as the man grins at her.

“Guess I’m out. You win, the staff is yours.” His voice is far, far away.

Kara blinks slowly. Her weight drops to one side and she struggles to hold herself upright as she asks, “Whash tagh?”

“Hey… You don’t look so good...” The man in black robes points out.

She recalls something about a journal and pages and writing something _in _the pages before her body gives up. Her vision fades and she drops. Warm hands catch her as she blacks out.


	6. consumerism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation with sanguine triggers a visceral reaction in the dragonborn. getting it all out is surprisingly therapeutic.

_I thought I left my party days behind, _is the only thing she can think of when she comes to. Lucky her, she isn’t on the damn wooden cart with her hands bound in crappy medieval-fantasy version of twine. Ralof isn’t chatting up a storm. She doesn’t have to look at an awkward rendering of Ulfric Stormcloak gagged like some kind of kinky… —_No. Let’s not go there. I’m not indulging that train of thought today._

When she’s capable of moving the first thing she notices is that her head feels like it’s been crushed into Oblivion. The second thing she notices is that her first thought may be accurate; the atmosphere outside one beautiful stained-glass window _reeks _of a plane of Oblivion. Torch bugs fly lonely routes through the air outside, a soft fog obscures the purple sky overhead, and the air reeks of mead, of wine, and of every other form of alcohol she can think of. In the distance she hears soft chatter and music. She tries to stand up but when her legs swing off the bed she begins to cramp and grimace; she still wears her armor and she feels incredibly sore with each piece of leather digging into her thin tunic underneath. Her head really, _really _hurts—enough to make her want to scream.

She is in a bedchamber. She holds her breath and looks around as realization sets in. So caught up in herself and the world beyond her current room, Kara feels foolish to get easily distracted. She is in a _bed _in a _bedchamber_. It’s a decadent room filled to the brim with over-the-top comfort in the shape of beautiful crimson carpets, golden upholstery, and cabinets upon cabinets of what she can only imagine to be full of fanciful décor and unnecessary accents. A night table to the right of the bed has her weapons and pack on it. She rifles through it but finds nothing amiss.

The sheets are comfortable. The bed is big. She bites her lip and strokes the silky comforter.

_Comfortable. Soft. I wouldn’t mind staying like this forever, _she breathes the thought aloud.

“If you aren’t careful—it’ll eat you up, keep you until the end of eternity,” she snaps her head in the direction of the voice as Sam Guevenne shuts the door behind him. He smiles and laughs when she scowls. “Get enough sleep?”

“I really did hit my head so far as to wind up in Oblivion.” Kara falls back on the bed. She regrets the decision immediately; it’s ungodly plush and intoxicating to feel around her. She tears herself away from the bed and almost falls as her legs begin to cramp and ache from lack of use.

This time Sam Guevenne doesn’t catch her—Sanguine does. His sudden transformation is too quick for her brain to register. She finds his gauntlets gripping her form, keeping her upright, and with that knowledge her eyes slowly trail up his arm and to his head. The pitch-black skin of the Daedric Prince is marked with ruby-red ribbons across his visible muscles. His jawline is sharp, his grin unkempt, and he has two sets of horns protruding from his skull. The darkness in his eyes is deadly; she averts her gaze to avoid the trance-like state his gaze attempts to pull her into.

“So,” Sanguine’s voice is merry and mild. He lets her go and pats her head. “Congratulations! You’re one of the few people I’ve met more all over the place than Sheogorath! Ain’t that a call for celebration? I think so—”

When the comments don’t incite a response from Kara, he continues.

“Maybe not _right_ away. I don’t know if you wanted to finish our last conversation or not. It’s pretty obvious you can’t just be my champion, y’know?” Sanguine’s head dips and tilts her head to look at him. His hand feels blazing hot through the gauntlet. The Daedra grins. “I can’t ask something like that of you when you keep _falling _for me. Good ol’ Sanguine has to look out for the lovesick mortals.”

She doesn’t know what to say—so she says nothing. Her lips part but no words emerge. In her mind—she is beginning to panic. _This is not how the game is supposed to go. This entire save file is bugged. I don’t know how to fix it. Why is it bugged? Isn’t the quest supposed to make me wake up in Markarth? Why is it happening like this? In this order? I barely used any shouts! I only used ‘fus’ and that was because bandits attacked me! Is this what happens to people who push the game past its existing scripts? _The thoughts spin wildly around her skull.

She cradles her head in her hands and turns from him. Pain seeps into her voice as she mumbles, “Fuck.”

To her surprise—the Daedra whistles. A knock at the door reveals a black-skinned humanoid with short horns and the barest of clothing covering their chest and groin.

_A Dremora? Is that what they’re called? _She watches the Dremora pass a platter of wine glasses and corked bottles to the Daedric Prince. The Dremora looks at her with merriment as it leaves.

The door shuts on its own.

“So, you’ve attempted to out-drink me a _myriad _of times,” Sanguine starts the conversation off with a chuckle at his own pun.

Kara groans internally. It’s better than panicking, but not by much. _His plane of Oblivion is called the Myriad Realms of Revelry or… Something like that. I can’t believe…_

“Let’s call it a draw. ‘Cause if you look where you are at now and where I’m at with you—it’s a draw. No offense. I got to play fair, you cheated.” Sanguine’s brows crinkle in amusement. His wicked smile returns and he pours himself a glass of fine sanguine wine. “With that outta the picture—I needed to talk to you. So! We are going to get nice and _comfortable_. You can take a seat, stand, maybe even use my lap as a chair if you play nice.”

“I’ll stand.” Kara frowns. 

“Good, good,” Sanguine gulps his wine with a hearty laugh following. His throat rumbles in satisfaction. “Now, about that chat… See, I am sure you and I could go off and conversate any number of things. Be it booze, sex, or your taste in men wearing black robes,” His grin is impish at the implication. “But since some things are going off the trails—we need to have a talk about _you_, Dragonborn. God. Ah-something. Oblivion, you and those others pick the best names, Kara. Highly entertaining!” He laughs again.

She holds her tongue. _His script recalls past playthroughs? That’s advanced… even for a virtual reality game._

To her surprise the Daedric Prince hops on the bed and lounges. His wine doesn’t spill. He pats the spot next to him and Kara strangles the desire inside her to join him in the sheets.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, honestly,” The Dragonborn grabs her pack and puts it on over her light armor. She eyes her bow. “Try not to be cryptic with me. I don’t... I don't follow the lore of this game as much as some people.”

“You think this is a game? Friend, friend, you are mistaken,” the Daedra waves her comments off. He crosses his legs and grins. “Perhaps to your kind. But Kara, sweet, kind Kara, you are not among your kind right now.”

_“Excuse me?_” She balls up two fists. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sanguine shrugs. “You’re a consumer. You tell me.”

“I’m a—Excuse me? Did you just use language from _business school _with me? I didn’t take micro-economics in freshman year of college to hear this crap, _Daedra,”_ Kara’s eyes blaze in frustration. She marches to the bed and points a finger at him. “Tell me what the _fuck _you’re talking about before I actually get mad. What the hell is a consumer to you? To Oblivion? Skyrim? Mundus or—Or whatever terminology you use for it! Aetherius!? That’s your Heaven, right? What does being a ‘consumer’ mean for all of this?”

“You consume our worlds.” Sanguine speaks nonchalantly. It’s a simple topic, if his tone is anything to go off of. “You and others. Those of us in divine _positions_, who exert authority and _dominance _over mortals, who _indulge _and seek _pleasure _from the way events play out… That is what we call you. All of you. Whether it is under the threat of Oblivion Gates opening or it is in a region damaged by a stale civil war.”

“Baal, help me. Artemis, for shit’s sake,” Kara grabs her hair and curses loudly. She grits her teeth. “That’s not possible. That’s not—How the _Hades _can you and your scripted friends be aware of… Of… An outside world?” She's in equal disbelief at the idea and equal disbelief at the notion she's buying into the idea of scripted virtual characters having their own world.

“The Daedric Prince of Debauchery is not a fool, Kara.” The Daedric Prince of Debauchery hisses. His dark eyes shield a look that she cannot decipher. “Neither are the others. We notice what you do to our realms…. You and the others—you _consume _all in them, you toy with things—_our _things—our souls, our mortals, our worshippers… You find ways to break the established rules that all others must live by. You are the consumers. That’s the most serious thing I’ve said all day—so take it seriously.”

“Skyrim was produced by Bethesda Game Studios. Right? Right. I can—I can email their customer support. I can ask them for a refund. I can…” Kara’s mind swims in confusion. “I’m a consumer because they’re a _corporation_—That doesn’t mean this makes sense—That you are even—How is this scene programmed in the game? Why would they include something so trivial?”

She doesn’t notice Sanguine has stopped talking for several minutes. The rush of information leaves her suspended in disbelief. It isn’t until the Daedric Prince rises from his resting place and strides to her that she jumps and gasps like being rudely awakened from a deep sleep. His hands are on her shoulders and he’s giving her a look far too complex to be on any Daedric Prince of Debauchery she knows of. The Dragonborn swallows and she wills herself not to break eye contact. 

“Good thing ol’ Sanguine here noticed you first. Hircine would’ve reacted a less pleasurable way,” the Daedric Prince snorts. He returns to his smiling self; he releases Kara’s shoulders. “You’re hard not to notice, Dragonborn. You consumers enter these realms with the souls of _dragons_ on your heels! I find it entertaining. Maybe the others don’t see it the same. But ignore them; now you’re here. You’re the Dragonborn, Kara. And your influence is gonna bring this world to ruin if you don’t act.”

“What do I…” Kara swallows. “Not that—That I believe it—But—What do I—What should I do?”

“Alduin.”

“World-Eater.” The Dragonborn repeats.

“If you play your cards right—and you _should _with my help—Alduin is the big be-all, end-all. Defeat him, world reverts to normal. Just try not to get so carried away you mess up other parts of our world. Yeah? Yeah.” Sanguine pats her head. “Got to say, I like what I’ve seen of you so far. Nice to have a free spirit here once in a millennia. Not that many consumers try to steal a kiss from the Lord of Debauchery. It’s usually the other way around.”

Kara covers her cheeks with her hands. Her eyes narrow but she manages to stare the Daedric Prince down. “That was—It won’t happen again.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sanguine shrugs. He leans down to her ears and murmers, “But if you wanted to…”

“Not right now.” Kara exhales shakily.

“Well! In that case! Let’s play a game, liven things up a little. You look like you need to take a load off and between the whole _‘you-being-a-destructive-force-of-consumerism’_ and my need for entertainment, I say we got to put our two heads together and work out something before the world ends. Again.” Sanguine straightens upright. He moves to the side of the bed and plucks a wineglass from its surface. Whether it was there before or not is not a point of interest for Kara.

“What are you trying to do?” The lady shifts her weight from one side of her body to the other. She’s willing her composure to calm, mend, and merge until whole. She frowns and watches Sanguine fill a glass of sanguine-red wine for himself, then another for… “Oh, no, no, not drinking more of that.”

“Can’t tempt you, can I? No, no, I can, _trust me_,” the wicked grin he sports is almost endearing if not for the fact Kara cannot come to terms with the notion it might be _real_. Sanguine tips his wine glass to his lips and drowns in the liquid. He licks his lips afterward and sets the glass down, pleased. “I see everything of this nature! I know all your desires, Kara. Every _last _indulgence. But that’s not the game we’re playing, right? Even if you want me to linger on this heated subject…” He eyes her lips.

She eyes him back, careful not to begin another round of Sanguine’s Satanic Eye Contact. 

“I’ll ask you a question. You can answer truthfully, or lie, either or, it doesn’t bother _me_,” The Daedric Prince of Debauchery grins and stretches. His armor plating clinks as the different pieces grind against one another. “But if you answer truthfully then I’ll let you ask me one.”

“Why would I—”

“I know every desire, Kara. All of them. Even the weird ones with a black-and-red jester—”

“I haven’t even found him in this damn game yet!” Kara cuts him off and growls. It dawns on her a moment later who she is bickering with; the Dragonborn straightens upright and averts her gaze to the side. “I’ll play your game. But I’ll let you know you are a lot less tolerable like this than my usual playthroughs.”

“Great! Perfect! Splendid!” Sanguine chucks his empty glass over one shoulder and ignores the sound of it breaking. The shards scatter and glint across the chamber floor. He flops back unto his bed and grins again. “Okay, I’ll give you an _easy _one, Kara the Dragonborn! Consumer-extraordinaire! Why are you more interesting when you’re drunk?”

_Ow. _Her pride stings. She sucks in a deep breath and shrugs. “I don’t know the answer to that. At least—not a good one.”

“You lying already?” The idea amuses the Daedric Prince of Debauchery. He wiggles his brows.

“I don’t know—I mean—” Kara throws her hands in the air. She sighs. _Why am I doing this? _

_Oh. Yeah. I need answers and he might have questions. I also can’t leave this bloody alcohol-infested meadow without his help. Goddamn Oblivion Gates. _The Dragonborn feels her patience beginning to crack as she considers _her _circumstances. _I can ask him where the exit it. He said he would be truthful. But I have to answer the question first, don’t I?_

She turns to stare Sanguine down. He’s watching her with interest.

“I think I can truthfully say,” the lady pauses. “I have a lot of _issues _outside of _Skyrim_. This game—your world—is _my _escape from _my _reality. Outside of it my life is not… It isn’t what I wanted it to be. It isn’t what I like. But it’s mine. And outside of it—and sometimes inside of it here, too—I have to be on my guard. I have to be resourceful. I have to watch out for myself because everyone else in the world won’t. When I play _Skyrim_,” she bites her lip.

_I can do anything here. _

“—I feel like I have more control over myself and my actions. I can get drunk without worrying about—Without being scared.” She clears her throat. “It’s not the drunkenness that makes me this way, Sanguine. It’s the… It’s the fact I can act without a care in the world. I can indulge in what I want to do. I can _be me_. And I don’t—I don’t have to worry or fret or fear for what could happen, okay? Does that answer your question?” She struggles to come up with words after that. Her heart drops in her chest and she exhales slowly.

She hears clapping.

She snaps to attention.

The Daedric Prince of Debauchery nods and claps to her answer. It’s not the rowdy show applause she imagined he would provide but rather a slow, gentle clap of satisfaction. Somehow, the clap doesn’t make her feel any better.

“What do you want to know?” Sanguine doesn’t appear to acknowledge a word she’s said.

“Where is the Oblivion Gate to Skyrim? Or—To Mundus—Whatever you call the equivalent of ‘earth’ in your world.” Kara clears her throat.

He shrugs. “What’s an earth?”

“Jesus, Joseph, Jeremiah—” Kara curses the names of Biblical figures. She knows he doesn’t understand an ounce of why she uses those names and she doesn’t care. Maybe she’ll be the one to preach random Earth religions to the populace of Skyrim! She’ll do it. Kara inhales deeply and cools her nerves before asking, “It’s the name of my world. My world—Earth.”

“And what,” Sanguine follows up quickly. “Is _that _place like?”

“You don’t have random demons crawling to the surface of the world to interfere in the lives of mortals. At least—none I know of.” Kara shrugs. A thought crosses her mind and she points a finger accusingly at the Daedra. “Hey—Hey! You didn’t answer my question! Where is the Oblivion Gate portal to Skyrim?”

“Outside,” it’s accompanied by Sanguine’s wink. “My turn!”

“That’s not—Wait—” Without another word Kara marches from her spot by the bed to the chamber’s window. She presses herself to the glass and peers out. Though the glass’ stained panels deter her sight, she can make out the outline of an Oblivion Gate portal among a thicket of trees outside the room.

She exhales in relief. _I can get out of here… Just… I’ll finish up a couple more questions, maybe, and then go. Satisfy his curiosity. It’s not good to piss off a Daedra, even if they call you weird names like ‘consumer.’ Just in case this is real._

“—How do you feel right now? Toward me, Sanguine, Daedric Prince of Debauchery and Hedonism and In—” Sanguine begins to add made-up titles to his own name.

To Kara—she finds herself weirded out by the fact she smiles at his antics. The Dragonborn turns back to look at him and she pauses. “Well…”

Sanguine looks absolutely _eager _to hear what she has to say. It’s different than before; he’s more attentive and his eyes display an almost child-like curiosity.

“Listen, this better not be another attempt of yours to get me to talk about—No, no, not getting into that, not getting into your debauchery—No. Okay. Let me give you an answer to ponder over.” Kara runs a hand through her long hair. She shivers. “So, honestly—Uh—Sanguine—Daedric Prince of Debauchery—All that good stuff—I won’t lie, I get a bit fed up with the things you say or do sometimes. But right now… Well. I’m not angry with you. I have patience for you _now_. It’s just… I am frustrated with other things right now. I am frustrated with restarting this game—and I know it’s your world and all, I get that, but it’s supposed to be _my _escape. It’s the thing I go to when life sucks, when rent’s due, when my husband’s--”

Her body clams up and she freezes at her own words. _When my husband’s home. When does he get home? No—No, he is out for a sports game. A late night. He’ll get drunk off his wagon, call a cab, and get home in the early morning. His team better win. His team… _She curses internally. _I got carried away, again. I didn’t book a hotel room. I should have bought more beer. I should have bought lingerie, or—Or something. Something to distract him if his team loses. What was I thinking? Playing Skyrim of all things!_

Her reaction must be physical, as Sanguine’s eyes narrow at her. She doesn’t look back at him. The Dragonborn turns to the window and crosses her arms in front of it; it’s the closest thing she can do to hold herself.

“I made a mistake.” She states softly. “Fuck... I… I made a mistake.”

She hears movement on the bed. From the corner of her eye she watches Sanguine sit up. “Yeah, I see that… Not saying I _agree_ with your line of thinking—But I can see what you’re feeling. That’s a desire, too, Kara.” The Daedric Prince’s voice sounds ‘off.’

What’s off about it is beyond her. Her brain is too rattled and jarred by possible outcomes of the evening to consider anything deeper about Sanguine’s actions, thoughts, or words. Kara inhales deeply once more.

“What’s the biggest desire you have right now?” Sanguine pours another glass of wine. The wine glasses seem endless, as do the bottles he produces from thin air. “I dunno whose turn it is to ask the question—but I want to take the initiative because you seem a bit preoccupied! So, if you don’t mind…” He lifts the drink to his lips and swallows it slowly. The glass seems to disappear as quickly as it came.

Kara shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“You do, actually. I know every desire, yeah? Even the dark ones,” Sanguine smiles and walks to her. She doesn’t look up when he places his hands on her shoulders. “Let me ask again: what’s your deepest, darkest desire, Kara? What do you want more than anything?”

She shuts her eyes tightly. She knows the answer. She hates that it’s so ugly of her to contemplate but the small scrap of ‘Kara’ that lives and breathes in the pit of her stomach screams it out loud.

“I want him dead. I want him gone. I want him so far out of my life the world won’t ever breathe his god damn name to my face,” She begins to shake. Anger rushes through her body and the Dragonborn growls with the fury of a _dovah,_ a dragon. “I want to tear him apart, Sanguine! Beat him until he’s brown and purple! Just like he did to me—make him feel _everything _he did to me!” She looks up at him and bares her teeth. The primal need to devour and destroy and _consume _seeps out of her like venom in a snake bite.

Sanguine smiles. “There it is. There’s Kara.”

“Gods, ten of them, eight of them, whatever—fucking whatever—” Kara shakes her head and growls again. She cannot find a release for her emotions. The physical act is beyond her, in the world of _Earth_. “I hate him. I hate him so much. I wish he was dead, Sanguine. My life—He’s taken so many years from it. _So many. _I wanted to enter the STEM field! I wanted to become a professor! I wanted to write a shitty P-H-D and get whatever fucking certification is needed to teach students at a college-level! And you know what? He persuaded me not to continue that path my third year in university. And it should have been obvious, too! All the signs were there, Sanguine! When I was a teenager—he asked me out. He was twenty-one. I was _fifteen._”

Kara bursts like a dam. Not just the anger—the sorrow, the grief, the rage, the injustice. All the times she suffered. All her stolen years and ruined memories!

“He pushed away everyone I cared about, poisoned every well of relationships I had with my family and friends—Even my _asshole of a father_! That alcoholic waste! Everyone! He could’ve carved them out of me with a knife, it hurt _so bad_,” She cranes her head up to eye him. Every ounce of her _seethes _with Kara’s being. Every blessed second more and more comes back to life and screams in defiance. “He’s done things to me, Sanguine—Things I couldn’t even tell _the _Lord of Debauchery! What he’s forced me through—The humiliation I’ve suffered—I will _never _forgive him for it. I will never want anything but his blood. And I…”

And it stops. All of it. Kara’s fragile surviving psyche crumples and her courage wanes as the fear and the guilt and the blame she feels returns in waves. She lowers her hands and slumps her shoulders as it chills her to the bone and leaves her numb and empty.

“I made a mistake.” She repeats. “He went to a sports game tonight. I can’t… I didn’t do anything, Sanguine. Anything to distract him when… I have nothing prepared. If his team loses—He’ll hurt me.” She cradles her head in her hands. “I can’t get out of this goddamn game. I haven’t been able to open the menu in—Divines. Hours? It was hard enough at first and now—I don’t—I can’t leave your world. I can’t leave _Skyrim._ He’ll come home and find me and--”

Kara is a strong woman but the strength she desires only goes so far in her reality. Her eyes fill with tears and she cries softly over the fear welling up inside her. To her surprise—she feels Sanguine’s hands leave her. His arms adjust to wrap around her in a way that’s almost intimately comforting.

“Truthfully, I don’t have a clue half the stuff you said.” The Daedric Prince states. “But I picked up enough, anyways. And right now you desire a man’s blood. And I _can’t_ help with that, not beyond what you call a ‘game.’ But y’know, Kara, I can sense every little desire in that fiery soul of yours. Every _single _one. And right now—you crave many things—But the one I can help with company. You don’t desire loneliness.” His hand moves to her head.

She half-expects him to pat it in his slightly-condescending mannerisms, but he doesn’t. His gauntlets are strange, but the touch of his fingers pleasant as they glide through her hair and gently stroke her head.

“Thanks.” She mumbles against his chest. Her cheeks burn, from the tears. “I kind of feel better getting that out.”

“You haven’t told anyone else?” She imagines him giving her a look of raised brows and a smug grin, but she doesn’t look up to confirm.

Her eyes squeeze shut. “No.”

“Well, well, well, you’ve told your good pal Sanguine here. Can’t say you’ve never told anyone now. For better or for worse—_I _know,” the Daedric Prince of Debauchery continues to ruffle her hair. “My followers think weird things sometimes. ‘Sanguine’s all about this! Sanguine is only that!’ Why can’t they get it in their heads Sanguine can be about more than one sin?” His ramble confuses her but she lets him continue.

It’s oddly something to hear the beat of his Daedric heart.

Sanguine huffs. “Usually they pair me with alcohol and sex. Nonstop rutting, like animals in heat! Can you believe that?”

“Yeah. I can.” Kara mumbles under her breath.

Sanguine releases her and pats her head once. He grins ear-to-ear and tilts her head up at him. “Self-indulgence isn’t just about getting highs and fucking people, Kara. Sometimes you got to indulge in _yourself_. Maybe my followers interpret that to the _extreme_, but for you--” His smile drops and he shrugs. “Maybe you need to indulge in _yourself_ a lot more often. Because this wall of yours is a lot less interesting than the ‘Kara’ you really are. Oblivion, even when you aren’t drunk—have some faith in yourself and in the ‘sports world’ you call home.”

"That almost sounded nice." She can’t help but smile faintly. _Of course--Sanguine thinks—Out of everything I said—What he gets wrong is that Earth is a world of sports? _

The silence that follows is short-lived but nice. She wipes away any other traces of her tears. Her breathing calms. The brief indulgence in revealing her true feelings and exposing vulnerabilities is… invigorating. She has a stronger grasp on who she is underneath the mask she projects of a submissive wife to a terrifying man.

Ironically, all the talk about ‘her’ world makes her realize how much she doesn’t like it. Kara pauses to consider the sentiment. As she stands in the middle of the Myriad Realms of Revelry, plane to one of Oblivion’s Daedric Princes, the Dragonborn comes to a surprising and eye-opening conclusion:

_I don’t want to go back to my world._


	7. prince of bad taste in food

She winds up spending a long time in the Daedric Prince’s room. It’s not a bedchamber for the entire visit; halfway through her time in the Myriad Realms, she learns Sanguine is a _little _restless. She leans with her back against a wall and watches in awe as the Daedric Prince begins melting the decadent bedchamber into a grandiose dining hall full of food, alcohol, and drunken guests. Sanguine sits without second thought at the head of the table. The fact _his _chair is a throne does not go unnoticed by Kara; her eyes squint at the Daedra’s tolerance for vanity.

_Though, _she can’t help but think. _I am the Dragonborn… Some of those Whiterun guards would throw themselves into a puddle so I wouldn’t have to get my feet wet. _

It’s almost comical how quickly she’s come to defend the Daedra. Kara doesn’t linger on the thought for long.

She finds one of the souls of Sanguine’s realm, an ebony-black Dremora, watching her. She flicks her gaze to her feet and exhales. _I should go back to Skyrim. I should go back to… _

“You want some turkey?” A wave of drumstick passes through her vision.

Kara flinches. She looks up and spies Sanguine with one oven-baked, golden-brown turkey body under a plated arm. His other hand holds a drumstick which he continues to shove in front of her until she waves it away. “No thank you.”

Though she expects the Daedric Prince to leave and resume his gluttonous feasting of birds—he doesn’t. She frowns and peers up at him expectedly. The unspoken question lingers: _What do you want, Sanguine? _

“Your desire for blood has diminished.” Sanguine straightens upright and pretends—for the briefest of seconds—that he is the Daedric Lord of _posh accents _and _pompous attire. _His outfit magically changes to fit the look of a suit-and-tie party, much to Kara’s amusement. “If you would be _so kind, _Kara, to answer my _humble _question: what in Oblivion’s finest fuckery is going on inside that delightful head of yours?”

She doesn’t crack more than a smile—but it’s a sincere one. The Dragonborn exhales. “I’m thinking of when I need to leave.”

“Already? But Lady Kara—You _just _arrived—” Sanguine’s accent begins to drop with his displeasuure. His outfit melts away to reveal the obsidian black Daedric armor that covers him neck to toe in shimmering metal. “You don’t have to go.”

“I think I do.”

“But you don’t,” the Daedric Prince points out. “I don’t normally accept consumers into my realm but—what the hell? I might make an exception for a certain someone! C’mon, take a seat, kick back, and relax!”

Kara shakes her head. “Your wine and dining’s great but I’m trying not get drunk again, Sanguine. It seems whenever alcohol is involved there is always trouble that follows it—and me.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kara grimaces. Now that she focuses on it: the smell of mead and rum and wine is rich in the air, scattered _everywhere _across the Myriad Realms. She can’t escape the aromas invading her nostrils.

A Dremora at the other end of the table stands and shouts, _“Killjoy!_ You put your kind to shame!”

“Yeah, definitely want to leave now.” The Dragonborn stretches her arms and glances at Sanguine. “You mentioned an Oblivion Gate outside? A portal? Is it still open? Can I get to it or is it there to taunt me and make me come crawling back to you with my tail between my legs?”

The Daedric Prince finishes off a glass of wine and shovels a whole turkey breast into his mouth in less than a minute. Sanguine doesn’t bother answering until he finishes his food.

“—Sure, sure—Yeah, go ahead—” He rips off another piece of turkey and waves a Dremora over to refill his wine glass.

“I bet that food has wine in it too.” Kara’s brows furrow. The intoxicating smell of alcohol induces a headache she cannot get rid of. “You would do something like that, too.”

“Nah, nah—Kara—Sweet, spirited Kara—” The Daedric Prince leans to her and shoves a loaf of bread into her hands. “It’s just food! I’m a Prince of Indulgences, not the_ ‘Prince of Bad Taste in Food!’_ My good friend, Kara, why would I ever waste a perfectly good indulgence like that? Waste of wine, too.” Sanguine’s look makes her think she just accused him of a thousand different sins and then some.

She begrudgingly takes a bite of the bread. It’s unusually sweet and a bit too crumbly for her preference but she swallows nonetheless. The Dragonborn hands the loaf to another drunken guest in the feast’s hall. She frowns. “Thanks, by the way.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Every indulgence, Kara, all of it comes back to me.” Sanguine puffs out his chest before laughing at the thought. He pats her on the head. “It’s good bread."

“That’s not what I was saying thanks for—What I meant—Sweet Zakariah, Sanguine. I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.” She sighs. _The bread is terrible. I bet the turkey is… Too?_

She finds the Prince’s vivid eyes staring deep into her own. She can’t resist staring back. His eyes are a wonder and a marvel and had he been a deity of earth she has little doubt what religion she’d follow, or the worship _she_ would do in his name. The Dragonborn feels chills jump down her spine.

_No, time to go. I’m leaving. This is his realm and… Not my world. _Her brows furrow. She bites her cheek and excuses herself before the Daedric Prince nearby finds a way to trap her with his breath-taking gaze or magnificent armor. She lets her thoughts creep up on her and they whisper soft words into her ears as she follows a chandelier-lit hall out into the open torch-bug infested wilds of Sanguine’s Myriad Realms.

_This isn’t your world. _She crouches by vivid golden shrubs to get a better look. In the distance, through the mist, she spies her prize: a swirling portal embossed with Oblivion symbols scouring its sides. Her resolve hardens. _This is just a game. You’re a player, not a consumer. And Sanguine isn’t… He’s just a script. A non-playable character. You don’t have any mods to romance him or befriend him beyond the vanilla quest he gives you. And technically—you already accepted that! You already finished this quest. And when you get back to Skyrim… Everything is going to be just the way it is. _

_Sanguine won’t be there. You’ll probably be in… Morvunskcar? Near Windhelm? I wish I could look up a map right now. _She stops a foot from the Oblivion Gate and gathers her strength in one deep breath. _Let’s go. We got a World-Eater to destroy._

in the end her monologue doesn’t matter, because one of the realm’s drunken patrons pushes her through before she has a chance to shout at them. Kara’s scream of aggravation sounds loudly as she falls through realms and crashes unto rocky steps below.


	8. turkey daedra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she's getting really tired of restarting the game. at least this time sanguine can keep her company on the road to high hrothgar.

She has words and many of them are colorful. Her vocabulary isn’t as extensive as some people but she finds solace in the fact when she needs to cuss someone out she can do so five different ways to next week. It’s all hypothetical—she’s smart enough to know not to do that to her husband, the man be damned for eternity—but part of the Dragonborn thinks she has reason to find her knowledge of words empowering. It’s one of _her _decisions, after all, and she doesn’t pass up an opportunity to choose something for herself.

It’s also good to prepare for the next time she sees the Daedric Prince of Debauchery after one of his ‘minions’ shoved her through an Oblivion Gate and dropped her straight into the middle of a Master Cryptomancer fight. Freezing to death isn’t an experience she desires to repeat. She makes a note to double down her efforts on picking up new curses and profanity as she listens to Ralof drabble on about how great Ulfric Stormcloak is. The trip to Helgen is noticeably anti-climatic. The Dragonborn picks her most recent name, Kara, and Kara the Dragonborn is given a second chance at fulfilling the Dragonborn prophecy.

By this point she has Riverwood, Whiterun, and Bleak Falls Barrow down to a routine. It’s annoying to carve out time and dump hours into training her skills but there’s no other choice. She needs to be strong enough to kick Alduin’s posterior to Oblivion and back. It’s the only way she knows of that can revert _Skyrim _to normal and fix her favorite game’s storylines and quests. The bugs of the virtual reality continue to ail her; she finds she cannot exit to the game menu in spite the Master Cryptomancer death that ended her previous playthrough.

_But I’m good now. _She shudders against the warm furs lining the inside and outside of her armor. _All I need to do is get up to see the Greybeards and then… And then… I’ll be good._ _I bet they will let me take a warm bath if I tell them I’m dying of pneumonia. _

The call of the reclusive Greybeards post-Dragon fight outside Whiterun motivates her to continue trekking the seven-thousand steps of the mountain. It’s both a mouthful and a sign something in her game files works properly. There are no unusual enemies, there is not a hint of unwanted chaos, and the weather overhead offers the barest hints of snow. She’s in a good mood for someone who lost all her gear and equipment again. Her feet hurt but she presses on at a vigorous pace that puts other mountaineers of _Skyrim _to shame.

There are a few things different in her pack this time around. Less alchemy ingredients, as she collects only what is necessary, and new spells in her arsenal. Though her playthrough focuses on a stealthy archer approach to her enemies, she opts to dabble in conjuration and illusion magic to open up distractions and buffs. She counts her blessings at the fact the court wizard of Whiterun sold her a _Summon Dremora _spell tome for but a few hundred gold septims; it’s a worthwhile upgrade from her poor flame atronach conjurations. The atronachs, in spite of their beautiful dancing bodies, are too fragile in stature for frequent use unless the opponent calls for sniping.

With the ability to summon Dremora on the tip of her tongue and fingers, Kara has no fear climbing the Throat of the World to High Hrothgar. The snowy mountain beckons her dragon spirit and she finds the pull _irresistible_ as she trudges higher and higher. The obsessive feeling reminds her faintly of Sanguine’s intoxicating gaze; the _scripted _magic that is projected by both is too complicated to give her anything but a lingering headache if she focuses on the subject too long.

She recalls, halfway up, the location of a frost troll spawn on the path. Kara doesn’t hesitate. She veers up the mountain’s craggy slopes and crouches behind a boulder. Her bow lies in one hand and she prepares to fit an arrow with the other. As she peeks her head out and peers around the rock, she finds no sign of the blasted thing. The thought of her game glitching now causes her to cringe and grimace at the snow-riddled steps. She puts her arrow and bow away to climb back down to the mountain’s trail. Kara shakes her head in disapproval at her own paranoia.

The fear is justified: she feels sharp claws rake her back right before she goes flying through the air. She hears cracks and her own cries of pain when she hits the ground. Her body rolls to a stop. The pain induces gasps of shock as she clutches her side and cranes her head to look up where her foe hit her. Kara’s eyes widen at the sight of a frost troll jumping up and down in place. _It’s preparing to charge. It’s preparing to attack me again._

She forces a gag back and slowly lifts a hand. Her eyes flicker shut and she hears the troll stomp down the steps towards her. Her fingertips crackle to life with vivid purple magic and she pleads to the Nordic god Loki to help her cast the spell right. The price for summoning a Dremora is a significant drain on her magicka and this time is no different; Kara’s pain increases tenfold and she sobs and shakes as her magicka flows into her fingers and spreads out in an orb in front of her. Unholy sounds wrench the thin layers of reality splitting Oblivion from Mundus; Kara cannot block out the wails and screams and nothing she hears coming from Oblivion’s many planes.

But it works. When she looks up she sees a Daedra in full Daedric armor. He brandishes a shortsword—or is it a dagger? She can’t tell from her angle. While the Daedra squares off against the troll she reaches for her pack and feels out the shape of a healing potion. It’s downed in seconds and she squirms at the sensation of bones melding together and flesh regenerating. While not painful—it is uncomfortable to go through and she has no desire to repeat the process unless _absolutely necessary._ She hears the clash of her Daedra’s weapon and the frost troll’s claws nearby. Then—the sound of a troll heaving its final rattling breath before the beast topples to the ground in a pile of sanguine.

_Sanguine? _She pushes herself upright and cringes at the tenderness present in her chest. It won’t fade for at least a day. Her eyes flicker up to the Daedra she summoned. When her conjured creature turns, her eyes widen and she drops her mouth open in shock.

“Look at you, all beat up. Not a good look,” Sanguine kneels near her and grins smugly. “You got a lot of bark but your bite’s lacking. That why you call me in? Need me to show you a thing or two—”

“How did I summon you?” Kara blurts out.

“Who knows? It’s entertaining, that’s good enough for me.” Sanguine chuckles. His smile is wicked and confident. He holds out a hand and Kara hesitantly takes it. To her surprise he pulls her upright and releases her.

Kara narrows her eyes. _Entertaining? That can’t be right. Well, it could be, but… I’m really about to say I know a Daedric Prince, aren’t I? I’m going to tell him I know he’s lying and… _

“—And that’s why we got to get a move on, you and I. Got to take this all the way.” His voice is littered with innuendos and euphemisms she doesn’t pay attention to.

Kara blinks slowly and looks at the troll. She briefly debates extracting its fat but clouds overhead hint at a coming winter storm. Her eyes float up to the puffy white clouds and she swallows nervously. “I’m not listening to a thing you just said. But we got to move. I can’t—I think I haven’t passed the three-thousandth step mark. I can’t climb the rest of this way in a blizzard, Sanguine.”

“I _just _said that—” Sanguine begins to protest but hushes when the first trickle of snowflakes falls.

Everything she thought about cussing Sanguine out leaves. She doesn’t think of her most recent death or of Sanguine’s gentle embrace in her past playthrough. The only thing on her mind is shelter and she seeks out the nearest ‘cave.’ The indented cavern is tiny and barely accommodates _one _but she doesn’t complain. There’s no pause when she crawls into the hole and begins to unload her pack on the slick ground. She frowns at the lack of firewood and looks ready to cry when she remembers she left her firewood at Whiterun after making arrows.

“I hate freezing to death.” The Dragonborn complains loudly.

She can feel the grin that crawls unto Sanguine’s face. Why he isn’t dispelled yet is beyond her; she knows her summon Dremora spell only lasts a certain length of time and at the moment Sanguine is lingering far, far longer than she expects of her magic.

“Lucky you, you got your own personal Daedric Prince to keep you company!” The words ring out loudly. “I got alcohol, free of charge. Might help you--”

“No.” Kara sighs. She wraps her arms around herself and shuts her eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”

She hears Sanguine pull a cork out of his wine bottle. It erupts with a faint fizz of foam and she grits her teeth when it sprays across her boots. She wipes them off on the ground and shuffles to the side when the Daedric Prince nonchalantly plops on the ground next to her. His armor is surprisingly warm, as is he, in spite of the mountain’s bitter cold gales and falling snow. She briefly wonders if this is all some kind of absurd joke; it would be the perfect time for her to be stuck freezing and have _no choice _but to cling to the bloody Daedra like he’s a lifeline. Her pride—and the fact he reeks of mead—keeps her in check but she slowly turns the option over in her head.

“You didn’t tell me how I summoned you. That hasn’t happened when I cast that spell before.” She scowls when a Daedric shin guard pokes into her side. She shoves him away and grits her teeth. “Careful with those!”

“I’m not the one who has to be careful.” Sanguine’s voice mimics her own briefly. He snorts and shrugs. “Did you die again? You have a look on your face that says, ‘I died again.’ Trust me, I know it when I see it.”

“You’re so less insufferable when you’re on-script,” the Dragonborn groans. A blood-thirsty Dremora wielding a greatsword would be more enticing to sit next to. Probably. She briefly debates casting her spell again to see if it banishes the Prince but at the last second she sighs and slumps. “Okay, really. Tell me how I summoned you so I know better next time.”

“Kara. The Daedric Prince of Debauchery does not appear for anyone.” Sanguine waggles a finger in front of her face.

She’s not amused.

“C’mon, at least crack a grin or something! You act like seeing me is worse than Alduin devouring the world!” The Prince reaches for her pack. She doesn’t stop him but she makes a point to stare when he pulls out several wine glasses from the bag, wine glasses that were definitely not there before. “Want some?”

“Still no.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and shivers at another frosty gale. “I don’t understand you. I guess I shouldn’t expect to.”

“Listen, if it bugs you _so _much, I’ll fill you in on what you need to know: I don’t appear because you summon me with your teeny-tiny spells. That’s for the itty-bitty baby Dremoras.” Sanguine dips his head back to indulge in a glass of alto wine. He sighs in satisfaction and lowers the glass afterward. “I appear because someone _desires_ it. Desires it perhaps more than they should, or more than they know, or more than they should _and _know. Sound familiar? I’m talking about you, Kara.” His hand reaches for her head and pats her hair.

She’s still not amused.

“Great. I’ve got a complex for tall, hulking black-and-red weirdos. Another problem on my list of stuff to deal with.” Kara grimaces. “Couldn’t you at least have appeared earlier than this? Back in that damn Cryptomancer fight that made me die and lose my shit _again_? I don’t think I’ve met someone with a worse timing than you. Except—maybe my father. But fuck him.” The woman huffs.

“I’ll consider it.” Sanguine smiles.

“Oh my god, no.” Kara shoves the Daedric Prince toward the entrance of their tiny cave. “No, do not—Do not say that—Go sit outside, I need a break from you.”

“As you wish.” His convenient cooperation wears on her.

Sanguine’s absence causes the cave to drop in temperature and it isn’t long before Kara stops what she’s doing to ask him to join her. The Daedric Prince agrees—only if he sits in her spot.

She decides not to press him on the minor irritations. She relents to sitting next him and using the warmth radiating off his body for heat. She keeps an eye out for misplaced shin guards and elbow pads as the storm slowly passes outside. Though the environment is purely a simulation based on the virtual reality version of _Skyrim_, she cannot help but let her thoughts drift as if it were all real. She considers the fact she’s truly not _that _young; twenty-nine-going-on-thirty is not a number she feels okay with given where she is at in her life: the majority of her time is spent on _Skyrim_ or appealing to her husband’s dominative affairs. She spends little on herself; most of her paychecks go to regular expenses her husband’s checks don’t cover.

The ordeal with _Skyrim _being supposedly ‘real’ and beyond a simple game makes her wonder if the whole thing is a grand trick conjured up by a weary, spent mind. When her thoughts cross that mark, she finds herself reaching for Sanguine and his armor. The heat his body gives off is enough to satisfy her thoughts for a short time. Inevitably, she stops pulling away from the Daedric Prince at all and soon she sits directly next to him with her head on a plated arm. Her teeth no longer chatter. She blinks slowly and stares out into the flurries of snow dancing from the heavens.

“What’s your favorite meal?” The Dragonborn asks quietly. Not talking gives her anxiety. She’s reached a point where she can’t afford to be alone with her thoughts.

Sanguine seems contemplative, but she isn’t sure if that is how he truly is or merely her perception of him. “Wine.”

“How original,” Kara sighs. “I would have pinned you for a turkey person—Um. Daedra. Turkey Daedra.”

“Now there’s an interesting thought…” The Daedric Prince hums thoughtfully. He hasn’t stopped pouring glass-after-glass of mead since Kara let him back into the cave. “Tell me, Kara, what other interesting thoughts are going through your mind right now? You got an itchy little desire that screams for conversation. No idea when it showed up, but it’s there.”

“It is.” Kara shuts her eyes. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“By…?”

“Hermes, I don’t know, _everything?”_ She huffs. “You can’t expect to drop buckets of information on someone and them be magically okay with it. I don’t—I still don’t believe this is real. I don’t think this is happening. It can’t be. _Skyrim _is, to me, a _video game_. I bought it on sale after it was announced as portable to virtual reality. That was, I don’t remember, a long time ago? Well over a year. I never experienced these kinds of events. And—And—All of a sudden—Things start freaking out in my save file and _this_ happens? I’m not dreaming, am I? Because it doesn’t feel real.”

Though Sanguine says something about worlds or realities or something of the sort, Kara doesn’t pay attention. She listens to her own breaths: inhale, exhale, repeat. The crisp mountain air feels oppressive versus refreshing.

“…I still can’t pull up the game menus. I still can’t leave,” She mentions a few minutes later. Her form returns to a rigid stiffness. She doesn’t reach for Sanguine nor does he her. “Ask me a question, Sanguine. Distract me. I don’t want to think of life right now.”

She feels the Daedra’s body shift near hers. Kara cannot protest as she’s turned to face the Prince. The two of them sit cross-legged facing one another. It’s almost awkward, but her exhaustion overrules any strange physical contact or proximity.

“Look at me. Yeah? Just look at me.” Sanguine’s voice is soothing. He reaches for her chin and tilts her head up at his. “There we go. There’s Kara. You try so hard to hide yourself and all I want is for you to have some fu. Right now seems like a pretty good time to test out the whole ‘have fun’ avocado. Now, do you trust me?”

“No.”

“—But I’m your friend.” Sanguine challenges her stance.

She blinks slowly and sighs. “Truthfully, I don’t think anyone is my friend, Sanguine. My husband doesn’t let me have friends. He doesn’t… approve.”

“What a dick.”

“That I’m married to! I know, I know!” Kara buries her head in her hands. She growls at no one in particular. “Cerberus help me—I’m a goddamn embarrassment. I shouldn’t let him push me around and yet here I am. If it was anyone else. I would have insisted they leave the man. I would have done anything to get them out of that situation.”

“But you have no one else.” Sanguine states.

“I have no one else.” Kara shudders.

“Except me.”

“Sanguine.” She pauses and shakes her head before any other thoughts slip out. The Dragonborn looks past him at the sky and sighs at the weather. “…And it continues to snow, to snow, to… Snow. So much snow. I’m trapped in a cave with the Lord of Debauchery.”

“That you are.” Sanguine pats her head.

“None of these are questions—”

“Then let me think of some,” the Daedric Prince smiles wickedly. “Would you prefer being known as _my champion _or does ‘sweet Kara’ work?”

Kara pinches the bridge of her nose. “Nevermind. What kind of fun did you have in mind?”

“It took you long enough to ask! C’mon, smile, we’re going to have fun here.” His own grin is tenacious in energy. Sanguine’s eyes don’t move off hers.

He really does have strange, entrancing eyes. The slightest look can make her knees wobble if she’s not careful. She still doesn’t know if it is a result of his own magic or if her complex for black-and-red characters has gotten _that _out of hand, like her teenage phase of squealing over _Shadow the Hedgehog_ wasn’t enough embarrassment for one lifetime. _I can’t escape this color scheme, can I? My true kryptonite right here. When they arrest me it’ll be for indecency of the colors red and black. _

It’s an amusing thought. Sanguine appears to pick up on it as she feels herself smile faintly.

“Glad you’re ready for fun. Hear me out—I know we both saw me kick a certain frost troll’s posterior. I’m not saying that trolls are easy to pose _but _I know that when it comes to corpses the best time to pose them in interesting scenarios if before the rigor mortis sets in—” Sanguine’s hands clench in mischief at the thought. “So, Kara, what do you say we go, find a couple more trolls, slit their throats and set up a couple macabre scenes for other pilgrims of this mortal plane to find? I was thinking a bunch of trolls posed in the act of intercourse would send a deep message about the stigma of sex in Skyrim’s dominant culture. And the look of horrors of everyones faces would make me cry tears of joy.”

She cradles her head in her hands. “Oh my god. No. No. You’re not desecrating troll bodies for fun.”

“It’s not desecration if they’re trolls,” Sanguine snorts. He takes her hands in one of his own and uses his free hand to tilt her head up at him again. “Relax, relax. I got more than one idea!”

“That is _not_ why I am reacting this way—” The Dragonborn begins.

“So!” His hands release her. “Next idea. You, me, a couple of old guys that should be bald by their age but got fine bears. High Hrothgar. You thinking what I’m thinking? You hide behind me, hold unto me for dear life, and I stride up high-and-mighty to those beard’s front door. They open it, you use that magical voice of yours—but because _I’m _the one in front in this position—They’ll think I’m the Dragonborn!”

“I’m pretty certain word has gotten out the Dragonborn is a chick and not a Daedra, Sanguine.” She retorts.

“Fuck,” The Daedric Prince sighs. He rubs the back of his head.

It’s almost endearing if not for the fact he’s Sanguine. The last thing she wants is to imply she finds him cute. It would go too far for his ego and she would never hear the end of it.

“Both of these ideas have some real backbone to them, but they involve going out into the cold right now. I’m not trying to freeze to death again. I said that before,” Kara says quietly. “No ideas for fun if they involve dying in blizzards.”

“What if it’s to go to an inn—”

“Sanguine.”

“No, no, hear me out.” For a moment Kara cannot help but picture Sanguine as a young school kid, scheming and up to dastardly pranks and complicated plans to ruin the day of an unfortunate victim. She lets herself smile again and the action seems to spur Sanguine on as his eyes get wildly energetic and his grin becomes wicked. “An inn. We find an inn, Kara. There’s one at the base of this mountain. It should have a bathhouse. You know what we do? We wait when it’s real cold. You walk in naked, distract all the lovely lil bathers, and stand there looking pretty while I make off with their clothes.” 

“Why do I have to be the one naked?” Kara’s brows furrow.

It’s a mistake to say that, she learns, as Sanguine takes it for a yes. He begins pulling off pieces of his armor and revealing the smooth, rippling muscles underneath. “I’ll walk in naked and stand there looking pretty while you sneak back and get their clothes—”

“Nobody is getting naked! Nudity is not up for discussion!” She groans and shoves piece upon piece of Daedric armor for him to don. Though she would never go through with it, the idea is an amusing thought. She’s heard stories of Sanguine making a spell that de-robes all individuals in a certain radius. She doesn’t dare bring it up in case he wants to prove he can still cast it.

As the weather begins to clear she realizes she isn’t as happy as she hoped to be. The Dragonborn frowns and packs up her stuff with little words and Sanguine talking in the background. Though she tunes him out, she cannot help but pause when her pack is full and turn to look over her shoulder at him. He stands outside their little cave bent over and watching her. The Dragonborn pauses and stares back at him a long moment.

“Is that really how to summon you?” She can’t stop the words before they spill out. She bites her lip. “Sanguine. To summon you they—I—Would have to desire your presence?”

The Daedric Prince smiles warmly. He straightens up and toys with a Daedric dagger in his hands during the time it takes Kara to climb out of the cave and stand.

“You would. And _you did.”_ Sanguine states simply. His smile is full of himself.

“That’s just—” She shakes her head. She inhales deeply and fiddles with the straps of her fur-lined armor. The Dragonborn’s chest is heavy. “I guess—Maybe it is true. A little—But that’s—Because I view you as a friend. Some kind of friend… The _‘what-the-fuck’_ kind of friend.”

“Yeah, a friend you suck the lips off of, a friend you want to jump sheets with.” The Daedric Prince smiles despite the lewd comment and he ruffles her hair fondly. “Good ol’ down-to-fuck Sanguine—”

“Don’t ruin the moment.” Kara sidesteps him, eager to get a move on to High Hrothgar before another winter storm spawns out of the blue.

As result of all the things she’s experienced—her confidence in what is and isn’t the real world has wilted and crumpled away, but at least if she’s stuck going through the throes of life and death in _Skyrim _she can still experience an actual friendship.

_It’s nice, _the Dragonborn acknowledges, _to not be alone._


	9. shiny, gleamy coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's about time she ran into the jester. she makes sure he gets the help he needs at any means necessary.

Though the old monks of High Hrothgar as kind to her, after the fifth week passes she finds she cannot stand one more minute of the thin mountain air or Arngeir’s gentle scolding. It’s around the point of the game where she normally receives a quest for a fancy, old horn from the kind Greybeards who house her, but the Dragonborn is antsy. She can’t spend another second thinking about the mountain, thinking about her inability to exit the game, or thinking about the horrible darkness of the World Eater she has to deal with eventually. It’s easier to ignore the subject and pretend she’s actually the cocky, hot-headed spunk she intended to be when she first began her set of recent playthroughs. Only herself and Sanguine know otherwise and since returning from High Hrothgar she finds the Daedric Prince _nowhere_ to be found, her secret kept safe another day.

Kara admits—to herself and only to herself when there isn’t any hint of the Daedra around—she finds herself more anxious without Sanguine’s presence. His snark, sass, and wildly inappropriate ideas amuse her and help make the long travel times easier to deal with. Even when she does inevitably give up and try to summon him through her Conjure Dremora spell—he doesn’t show up. She’s left with only crackling fires and the company of her stolen horse to distract her.

Though the Dragonborn briefly contemplates visiting Delphine in Riverwood and advancing the Blades storyline—she refrains. Between it and the presence of Thalmor in Skyrim she doesn’t want to provoke the high elves into targeting her more than what will be necessary once she triggers the quest to find and save Esbern. Trying to mess with the Thalmor beforehand can lead to loot or it can lead to her having to sit through another session of Ralof’s Dialoguing: The Chronicles of Ulfric Stormcloak. There is only so much Kara can take of the man before she reckons she will snap and make use of her _fus ro _shout first-hand in the opening cutscene of the game.

What Kara decides to do is throw herself into gaining favor of the Jarls across Skyrim’s provinces. It isn’t an easy task but she knows it will come in handy for later looting runs should she try and grab something from one of the capital cities or towns. She cannot view her pickpocket skill but she knows if she gets caught then the title of _Thane_ will help her avoid persecution and untimely bounties. Her pursuit of _Thane _titles sends her across the entire map of Skyrim, from Markarth’s bloody, silver-city to the beautiful blue-skies and greenery of Solitude. It happens that she winds up in _The Pale_ during a trip to hunt down giants in the region; the area is part of Dawnstar and Jarl Skald is too much a _dick_ to go slay the giants himself.

Though she tries to focus on the quests one-at-a-time, Kara winds up inevitably ducking away from the quest involving the Daedric Prince Vaermina. She recalls what Sanguine said of her once; she has a soul that is positively _addicting _to the Divine powers of Skyrim. Her dragon spirit is vicious and seeks power. She longs to unlock her thu’ums, master the bow, and push herself to the point of killing anyone who tries to hurt her again. Those desires reflect in her actions; _Thane _is but a title of recognized power and affluence. Though the quest item—a staff called the Skull of Corruption—tempts her, she resists the urge to follow the priest Erandur to the temple where the quest takes place. She holds her own against the temptation of Vaermina’s possible indulgences of power.

Sanguine is bad enough, good god. Kara finds herself wishing he was around to provide commentary when she turns Erandur away and winds up on the road out of Dawnstar once again. Her horse is a mare with a smooth brown pelt and shiny black mane; she doesn’t know the legal name of the mammal but the Dragonborn fondly calls her Velvet for the texture of her coat.

When the horse whines at her one day, she frowns and looks down the road. Kara pauses as a voice dances through the air and into her ears, merry yet distinctly not-Sanguine as it proclaims, “Agh! Bold and befuddle! Stuck here, oh no! Stuck! Stuck and my mother—my poor, _poor _mother! Unmoving! At rest, but too still!”

_Who was it that said that? _Kara directs Velvet to the side and ties her to a tree down the road from where a cart lies and a strangely-dressed man dances near it. _Not another Daedric Prince, no. Not an Aedra—By Hestia and Aphrodite on high, that would be weird. What non-playable character is it that talks about his mom?_

“Oh.” Kara says.

“Oh,” She repeats. “Oh—Oh—By the Divines—That—That’s nothing to do with Daedra!”

The Dragonborn practically bolts for the cart. It’s not exactly how she remembers it but she smiles all the same: the cart lies broken and lacking two wheels on its front end, causing it to slant awkwardly from the weight of a great casket in its bed. The coffin—she knows what is inside, she knows, she knows and she can’t stop her grins as she approaches—is not nearly elegant enough for the body it carries but she finds the minimalism strangely appealing for the matron. Her matron.

The man next to the cart dresses in a stunning scarlet-red and pitch-black jester’s motley. It’s an older outfit with stains and stubborn stitching beginning to unravel, but it still has the sheen of gold accents embroidered into its edges and the craftsmanship looks homemade and to _die _for. She marvels at the little bells attached to the jester’s hat and when they stop chiming—the man stops in his dancing at her approach—she gives a tiny wave.

For a moment nothing is said. She stares, he stares, and she finds the color of his eyes—she can’t tell if he has hazel or brown irises, but both are good and nice and lovely—to be highly appealing to her sappy Dark Brotherhood-adoring heart. Her soft spot for one of the game’s darker storylines likely comes off as some lovesick ogling gaze but she doesn’t know if Cicero even cares when he himself goes around as a jester.

_I called you my keeper in that one playthrough with the mod… _Her heart warms. She doesn’t think to stop approaching him until she’s a few feet from the cart and he’s beginning to move as if to draw a dagger.

“Oh. Uh.” The Dragonborn freezes and holds her palms up. “Sorry, sorry! I’m not… I don’t want to bother you. I don’t want to… I mean… Okay, let me try again.”

_“Who _are _you_?” The jester asks flatly. His hands haven’t moved from what is likely the location of concealed ebony blades.

She smiles meekly and rubs the back of her head. “Just—”

_Don’t fuck with the Brotherhood. Don’t mess with the Brotherhood’s storyline. You know you want to but it’s not worth the headache if things get messed up and glitchy with them. You’ll probably cry if they die early! You already cry enough over these virtual characters! _The Dragonborn swallows her fears and manages a confident smile. She gestures to the cart. “You look like you have a problem, sir. I’m a traveler and I wanted to see if I could help out. Your cart is missing two wheels?”

“_Poor Cicero is stuck._” The jester huffs. He rocks back and forth on his heels while trying to explain, “Stuck, stuck, stuck! Can’t you see? You can, can’t you? You have eyes! Two of them! Poor Cicero is stuck! Poor Cicero… transporting his dear, _dear _mother,” Cicero pauses. A ray of sun bursting through clouds gives him a soft glow to his pale, dry skin, and for a moment she forgets he’s a full-blooded killer opposed to some kind of Aedra in the form of man. “—Well, not her. Not her, no, no, no! She’s dead. Cicero is transporting his mother’s corpse. Cicero is taking mother to a new home! A new crypt! Yes, oh, yes! But… Agh!”

Cicero kicks the wagon. It creaks in response. Kara hides her laugh.

“You see, don’t you? Don’t you _see? _Wagon wheel, wagon wheel, how it stops turning and lies to dear Cicero! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke,” Cicero gestures with both hands at it. He peers at her. “It broke. You see that, yes? Don’t you?”

“I do,” she confirms. She steps closer and finds Cicero no longer reaches for his weapons. Her heart thuds faintly in her chest as she kneels by the wagon and coffin it carries. Her hands reach out to touch one spoke with careful, gentle fingers. “Do you need help? Or… Do you want help? Your name is Cicero, you said?”

“Cicero is Cicero indeed,” Cicero nods vigorously. His grin is infectious and pleasing. “Cicero would, yes, oh, yes, Cicero would _love _help, strange stranger!”

“Tell me how to help and I’ll see what I can do.” Kara smiles back at him. Her eyes are drawn to his jawline and face but she clears her head of that particular distraction quickly. She doesn’t want to come off like she assumes she knows where to go; even if she _does _know who to talk to and what characters to ask help from she doesn’t intend to mess up the game more than she already has with Sanguine’s sorcery.

A moment later, the Dragonborn gasps as she’s taken in arm and spun around at Cicero’s side. His eyes gleam in delight as he uses her like a doll to dance with under the sky’s passing clouds and sparse sunlight. Though she’s initially surprised she soon relaxes and throws in what few dancing steps she knows of: the dip, a subtle three-step-slide routine, and an awkward attempt at a sultry, needy wriggle of her hips. But she doesn’t care how bad or good it is; Cicero doesn’t seem fazed and the two are having fun and given how things have gone badly in the past she cannot help but laugh and go along with it. By the time the two finish she is _out _of breath and panting with flushed cheeks and a smile to match. Cicero laughs and grabs her for another spin before he finally lets her free.

_I like to see you happy. _She laughs.

“Strange stranger, oh, helpful, strange stranger! A stranger that dances!” Cicero brings his hands together and claps for the two of them. “Cicero has not danced with another for many months. Many, many months. Cicero does not need to dance but indulges when given the opportunity.” As if to prove a point he begins a solo jig with tapping of his feet and occasional leaps in the air.

The Dragonborn tilts her head to the side and exhales softly. “It’s nice, isn’t it? To have fun like that once in a while. But—” Her eyes drift to the side and she pauses. “The Night—Your mother. Your mother, Cicero. I need to get someone to help fix the wheel. Wheels. _Wheels. _Is there anyone in the area that can help with that?” She relaxes when she doesn’t see any visceral reaction from the assassin at her small slip-up. Her respect for the Nightmother goes without saying but in present game-time she is not a member of the Brotherhood and is not meant to possess such knowledge.

“Hmm—Oh, yes, yes, the kindly stranger can help! More than the dancing, heh,” the jester holds a hand to his mouth and his eyes focus on her. “Go to the farm—Loreius farm, strange stranger! Dancing stranger! Just over there, off the road! Talk to Loreius! He has _tools! _He can _help _me! He can help poor Cicero and his dear, darling mother!” Soon Cicero clutches his hands together and drops to knees in front of her. His face looks surprisingly desperate as he pleads, “But he won’t! He won’t! He refuses! Kindly, dancing, strange stranger—convince Loreius to help poor Cicero! To fix my wheels! Do that—”

Cicero stands again. He’s closer than he was before. She looks at him curiously. _I forgot how fast he moves. _

“And Cicero will reward you,” the jester whispers it like a secret. His eyebrows wiggle and he holds a finger to his lips before skirting away and declaring. “With coin! Coin! Gleamy, shiny coin! Poor Cicero is not poor in shiny coin! Cicero is not poor in finding coin! Cicero is very good at it when time calls.”

“I believe you,” the Dragonborn glances at the coffin nearby. She smiles. “_I believe you_. Keep your gleamy, shiny coin. Only the best for your mother, right?”

“Yes, yes, the best for poor Cicero’s mother,” the jester agrees. Cicero crosses his arms and begins to tap a foot. “Now, off! To the farm! The farmer is at his farm! Where else would he be, Cicero thinks, where else but his farm where he farms? Loreius is his name, the mean old farmer! Go convince him to help poor Cicero!” The jester continues on and on and on in increasingly longer rambles.

_My child... _The ethereal voice reaches for her from nearby and the Dragonborn’s blood runs cold. She cannot muffle her gasp as she snaps her head at the casket and stares. Her breathing shakes and she swallows nervously as she Listens—but nothing else comes, no orders, no contracts, not a single word to be had from the Night Mother.

She realizes she is not the only one quiet. She looks at Cicero and finds he has ceased all talking and has locked eyes with her. His gaze is not the light, jovial gaze of a carefree and cracked soul of a jester. His eyes are dark and serious. There is no hiding the severity of his watch as her every single movement, reaction, and breath is observed. The Dragonborn swallows and straightens upright. She tries to speak a moment—but words escape her and instead of trying to explain herself she leaves Cicero and the Night Mother’s body. Her feet carry her far, far away to Loreius’ farm.

It’s a simple plot of land with a tiny house and an older man busy cutting down stalks of wheat. The man’s tired eyes hint at the weary lifestyle he walks, but she doesn’t have time for sympathy. Her entire body feels jarred and her nerves are scrunched up like cut strings of a violin. The fact the Night Mother made herself known to her so soon is something Kara fears; she does not fear her beloved matron but rather the possibility that she has already messed up the Dark Brotherhood storyline to the point of no return. She doesn’t recall the exact scripts and dialogue beyond a few key cutscenes but a sense of dread rips into her stomach. She cannot speak right away when she walks up to Loreius.

He eyes her with suspicion. “Oh, for the love of Mara—what do you want?”

She flinches. He’s more aggressive in person and that startles her. She bites back fear and inquires, “Is something wrong? You seem pretty tense for someone standing in the middle of a field of wheat.”

“What now? Is something _wrong_?” Vantus Loreius groans. The bald man’s hands clench tightly around his sickle. He points it at her. “Is something wrong? Is something _wrong_, she asks! Yes, something is bloody wrong! Or maybe you missed the demented little man in the jester’s garb, down by the road? Goes by the name of _Cicero? _Crazy fool—He’s asked me to fix his wagon five times! He won’t take no for an answer! Why can’t folks like him leave us alone?”

Her eyes narrow. She bites back sharp retorts that she knows would only escalate the situation. The Dragonborn finds a sense of calm in politely choking out the words, “So—What’s the problem? He—I’m sure he’ll pay you—”

_“Pay me? _You think this is about money, you wench?” Loreius spits at her feet and sneers. “Have you seen the man? He’s out of his mind! He’s completely out of his head! A _jester? _Here in Skyrim? Ain’t been a merryman in the country for least a hundred years! And he’s transporting a giant box. Claims it’s a coffin. Claims he’s going to bury his mother. Mother my _ass. _He could have anything in there. I bet it’s contraband. War contraband. Weapons—_skooma. _Ain’t no way I’m getting me or my wife involved in that mess.”

_If this is real then I can’t murder everyone I want to because they piss me off. Adults handle things with maturity. I am an adult. I handle things with maturity. And my temper… _Kara reins in her dragon spirit’s vicious, snarling side. The curses she wishes to place on this man! The hate that bubbles up at the disrespect for _her _matron!

She tries to hold it back—just a little longer. She clenches her eyes shut and spits out, “Wow, you almost have a point. Humor me: what can I do to help so we can resolve this problem and walk away?”

Loreius eyes her carefully. He dismisses her as a threat as, after a moment, he turns back to the wheat and resumes his harvest. “Well, there is something.”

“Tell me.” She says.

“There’s a guard—patrols the road that crazy jester is on. He passes by pretty often. You could report the fool. You know, say he's done something against the law. That will at least get rid of him for me. What do you say?" The farmer asks between strikes of his sickle against wheat.

_I would rather flay you alive. _Kara feels bile rise in the back of her throat. She’s disgusted at her own anger and rashness, but she can’t rid herself of the dirty feeling the farmer’s given her, not when her inner dragon claws at her gut for release. _My keeper. My Brotherhood. My matron…_

“I won’t condemn an innocent man.” The Dragonborn hisses.

"Hmph. Fine. Suit yourself.” Loreius dismisses her. “But you're wrong, anyway. Just look at the fool. I don't know what it is, but he's damn well guilty of something."

“Aren’t we all!?” That _does it_, Kara snaps and strides forward. She wrenches the sickle from Loreius’ hand and ignores the screech of his wife from just outside their home. Her hands grab the man’s shirt and she lifts him off the ground and bares her canines as all the churning, boiling venom and rage and _fury _of her dragon pours out in one crystal-clear, cold sentence. “He’s a stranger who needs assistance; help him.”

She makes it clear there’s no room to say no.

The farmer’s wide-eyes glaze over and he shudders and writhes against her touch. "And just who in Mara's name are you, anyway!? Who--Come here, telling me—My—My business—And for what? To help a... a... a fool! Oof!" She throws him to the ground; he cries out in pain when his head bumps into a wheat stack laying horizontally across the earth.

“Do you know who I am, Vantus Loreius?” The Dragonborn kneels next to him and yanks his head until he’s looking at her. It’s an ugly angle and surely hurts but she doesn’t care. He doesn’t deserve her sympathy or kindness. She snarls and states, “I am Dragonborn. Consider it a blessing to see my face and not the side of my blade nor gleam of my arrow.”

"Please don't hurt us," the farmer's wife begs. "Just--Loreius--Help her! Send her away!"

"You wench," Loreius sputters. "Fine! Fine! You--Let go of me! We'll help him!"

Kara accompanies the _helpful _farmers back to Cicero and the Night Mother’s coffin. She smiles politely and beams at the sweet, succulent smile that dawns on the jester’s face when he realizes Loreius _will _help him. As two wheels are slowly put back on to the wagon Cicero tries to offer gold—first to Kara, and then to Loreius after she declines his shiny, gleamy coin. Loreius doesn’t respond and Cicero takes it as a no. He waves at the two _kind_ and _considerate _people after the wagon is fixed. The two farmers are eager to leave; Kara waves them goodbye.

“Poor Cicero is poor no more!” Cicero’s words cut through her thoughts. He takes a bow and smiles slyly. “Oh, stranger, you made poor Cicero so, _so _happy! So jubilant! So ecstatic! But more! Even more! My Mother thanks you! Here, here—For your troubles—” He reaches and takes her hand.

Kara begins to protest, “I told you to keep your shiny—”

It’s a kiss that Cicero places on her knuckles. He draws back, smiles, and watches her.

Her face flushes. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”

“Cicero thanks _you_, kindly stranger. Cicero has never felt more alive than the dance before Mother! Cicero feels a pang of guilt at the thought it will never happen again.” The jester pulls on her and she does a spin before she’s caught in Cicero’s grasp. Her back presses against his chest. He has one hand ripping her chin backward and exposing her throat while the other wields one of his deadly ebony blades. Cicero smiles sadly at her and presses the knife against her throat. “Cicero cannot allow kindly stranger to live when kind, pretty stranger knows the secrets of the Night Mother. Cicero _will not let her fall into unworthy hands.”_

She’s reminded, in that moment, of who and what Cicero is, whom he serves, and the talent hidden among his jester’s persona. He’s a cutthroat assassin with no qualms murdering her. His devotion to the Dark Brotherhood’s matron is undying.

Though she can _fus ro dah _Cicero into the next century—she refuses to use the magic of her voice on _him_. Her eyes remain wide and visibly concerned for her safety but she manages to lean into the crook of his neck and away from the blade long enough to speak in a desperate voice—

“Darkness rises when silence falls.”

The blade has cut her skin by that point but the veins in her neck remain intact as Cicero gawks and releases her. His expression is almost comical; his jaw drops and his eyes become buggy and stare at the Dragonborn as if she just sang in Daedric tongue. “What—What did you say?”

Kara crawls backward and pulls herself to her feet. She exhales slowly. _This will mess up the storyline for the Dark Brotherhood. But there’s no other way. I’m not restarting again. I’m not listening to Ralof praise Ulfric’s dick! That’s over, that’s done, I’m too invested to just—Give it all up—Give it up to keep this one storyline intact! Things haven’t gone that terribly with Sanguine, have they? It’s not like… my game file hasn’t deleted itself. _She bites her lip.

Cicero remains staring at her. His blade in one hand is fiddled with absentmindedly while he clenches his teeth and waits for a response.

“Darkness rises when silence falls,” Kara breathes. She says it again for good measure. “That’s—I know this is kind of unbelievable, but—But—Darkness rises when silence falls.”

_My child. _The Nightmother calls to her from her coffin. _Kara. _

“You—You—Kindly stranger—” Cicero heaves the words slowly, “’Darkness rises when silence falls?’ But—Those are the Binding Words—Written in the Keeping Tomes—”

“Yes. Yes, they are.” The Dragonborn averts her gaze.

“—The signal so I should know—Mother’s only way of talking to sweet Cicero—” Cicero continues in stammers.

“I hope you aren’t mad—And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before—Because this is more or less—Gods, Divines, _Arceus,_ this doesn’t make sense in this order, this way,” Kara cradles her head in her hands and grimaces. “I’m sorry—Cicero—I should have just—I shouldn’t have said anything at all—Like this—!”

She finds herself taken aside by the jester and pulled into another dance. It’s a waltz; she doesn’t know all the steps, but Cicero seems intent on guiding her one way or another. He’s back to smiles and grins and merriment. Though Kara relaxes in his hold she watches him carefully as if expecting another dagger to come out of a pocket at any second. Cicero hums pleasantly as they dance, and dance, and dance under a gloomy sky and falling snowflakes. A bird chirps nearby and the Dragonborn almost jumps in shock.

“Then—She is back!” Cicero half-sings as he spins her around and wraps his arms around her, exuberant and carefree. “Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen you! All hail the Listener! The Listener! The Listener!” He takes her for a dip and she barely manages not to fall to the ground in his loose grip. Cicero pulls her back up and grins eagerly at her; any sign of hostility is gone.

So gone that the Dragonborn bets she could cut out his organ and not think twice. It’s not a pleasant thought but she believes it to be true. With her early acknowledgement of the Listener rank, it will cause tension with Astrid in the Brotherhood off Falkreath. She frowns at the thought. Cicero dances and sings and laughs in joy while she stands next to him with her hands at her side and her face pale and unsightly. Nearby—she hears the sound of her matron speaking; the Nightmother gives her an order she cannot refuse.

_Falkreath… My child. Falkreath is where you will find your home. _The ethereal gaze whispers. _You must go there. The time to find your family is now._

The Dragonborn doesn’t and won’t refuse. It may take her out of her way but the Night Mother is a figure of Sithis’ will. She will not go against her Divine, even if—

_What am I doing? _She freezes in place. _Is this… I’m taking this seriously. This world seriously. I’m… _Her eyes widen.

She’s beginning to believe the world is real.

But _Cicero _feels real. Cicero _sounds _real. Cicero has a beautiful voice and fantastical eyes that make her forget all her worries. The jester doesn’t know it yet but _she _does; he’s a devoted follower to the Night Mother and she respects him for both his service and for his efforts to survive in spite of hardship and tragedy. He’s one of her favorite characters for those reasons. And, when she takes on the role of Listener in a playthrough, she finds his presence and mannerisms comforting. He may not be the picture-perfect assassin like Astrid but he is a reminder that all of the Brotherhood have their own individuality about them. They carry stories of their own and move past those sorrows in the name of honoring and glorifying Sithis.

_To Falkreath. Kara. _The Night Mother whispers to her, a voice gentle as a summer breeze and loving as a songbird’s melody.

“Poor Cicero is poor no more! Poor no more!” Cicero continues to dance and dance and dance. He stops only when he notices she does not share the joy of the moment or engage in his dancing. “Is the Listener upset at Cicero? Has the Listener been hurt by Cicero’s dance?”

“No, no, absolutely not.” She shuts her eyes. “I’m just… I’m thinking. I’m sorry. A lot is going through my mind.”

_Is this acceptance? Acceptance of my fate? Am I bound to this game forever?_

She’s picked up by the jester and she gawks and wiggles in his grasp to no avail. Cicero plops her on the driver’s seat of the cart and climbs up to sit next to her. He grins and takes up the reins of the wagon. “Cicero understands. But poor Cicero is poor no more! For the Listener is here! Our Lady is back! It calls for celebration! To Falkreath, cart, with you!” Cicero snaps the reins and the horse it connects with whines and begins to move forward.

Kara snaps upright and looks over her shoulder. “Oh, fuck, Cicero—Stop—Hold on a second—Velvet! I have to get Velvet!”

She’s halfway climbing out of the cart and leaping unto the road when Cicero dives off the wagon for her. Kara points behind them to where she tied Velvet up and Cicero dances his way to the confused horse. She winces when Velvet nearly kicks the unfamiliar man, but after a moment Velvet gives in and follows Cicero’s run back to the cart. Cicero hops up and ties Velvet to the back of the wagon. He pulls himself into his previous seat and smiles wonderfully at the Listener. There’s a proud sparkle in his eyes when he looks at her; the man is clearly pleased to have helped his Listener in such a dire moment.

The Dragonborn smiles faintly. “Thank you. I’m fond of my horse.”

“And Cicero is fond of the Listener! Which makes Cicero fond of the Listener’s horse!” The jester declares. He takes the reins in hand again and not-so-subtly scoots closer to the Listener. “Cicero cannot wait to tell family in Falkreath! The Dark Brotherhood’s matron is back! The Listener is here! Kindly stranger does not die!”

A soft heat rises to her cheeks. She swallows and nods. “When you put it that way—Yeah. Yeah.”

_This won’t go wrong. It will be okay. It has to be okay, _She shuts her eyes tights and breathes. _I won’t let this go wrong. Sithis won’t allow it. Neither will I. Not in Falkreath. Not with my Dark Brotherhood.  
_


	10. the dark brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cicero drags her to falkreath and she learns how the dark brotherhood treats their newest members.

The trip to Falkreath is obnoxiously long and tedious thanks to the constant threat of dragons overhead and giants, wolves, spiders, and every other bloody thing that wants to kill her on the ground. The surrounding terrain provides ample cover for nasties to hide and stalk out travelers; more than once the Dragonborn is thrown into sudden combat. Though she finds Cicero often dances his way to her on the battlefield, she makes sure to clean up fights as quickly as possible lest the Keeper or—Sithis forbid—Night Mother get hurt. As Listener she will _not _allow such to happen. She has rediscovered the Bend Will shout and the words ring in her ears whenever she feels compelled to act with it.

Her inability to bend the will of dragons proves to be the most obnoxious. Of all enemies—she cannot risk Cicero or the Night Mother against a dragon. Dragons are nasty and territorial creatures on their own but it feels like whenever one sees the Dragonborn it loses its mind and targets her unto death. She finds herself annoyed at the never-ending cluster of dragons in the area. No matter how many arrows she shoots or souls she absorbs she cannot end the threat of flying winged reptiles. Falkreath Sanctuary continues to feel further and further away as her days pass under a muggy sky and her nights become filled with clouds, no stars. She doesn’t dare speak more than few words to either Cicero or the Night Mother; her fears of messing up the storyline hinder her and keep her from growing too close.

The lack of Sanguine begins to add to her list of concerns; it’s weird to say she doesn’t think it’s ‘like him’ not to pop up but she cannot get rid of the feeling something bad has occurred. Why else would the Daedric Prince leave such a fiery dragon soul alone? He called her _dangerous. _She wonders if it was all taken out of context. He is a Daedric Prince in the end and she is only an almost thirty-year-old woman stuck in a video game.

So, when the cart finally pulls up to the edge of a forest and Cicero climbs out to manually guide the horses off the road, the Dragonborn—Listener—finally breathes a sigh of _relief. _They have made it. She’s home.

Though the Night Mother says nothing—she can feel an encouraging emotion move through her body when she walks by. The Dragonborn relaxes in the ethereal warmth.

“Will lovely Listener introduce herself to the family? Does the Listener require Cicero to make introductions?” The Keeper asks her as they walk into the forest. Every few steps come the rumble or creak of the wagon holding their matron’s corpse.

She bites her lip. _What is worse? What is better? What will keep things… normal? I don’t want anything to happen but I’ve triggered being Listener early so that’s moot. I need… I wish I knew what to do. To say. To…_

A hand briefly touches her arm. She stops and finds Cicero watching her. The Listener rubs the back of her head. “I’ll…”

_Introduce myself, say the wrong thing, and make things go off-script extra soon? _No, she refuses to let things happen like that. The Dark Brotherhood’s storyline is important to her!

She meets Cicero’s gaze and grants him a smile. It makes her heart swell in joy when she notices the light flush on the man’s face. “I’ll let you make the introductions, Cicero. By the way,” she pauses. “Do you wish to be addressed as Cicero? Or as Keeper?”

“Listener may address humble Cicero however the lovely Listener desires.” Cicero states firmly.

They keep moving with no further conversation. Cicero hums happily when the dangerous black door of the Falkreath century slips into view. It’s well-hidden but the two of them easily find the great skull etched across the door’s surface. The Listener nods at Cicero and he darts forward and listens to the door’s question. The answer is whispered to the door in such soft tones that the Dragonborn begins to wonder if Cicero said anything at all. With a soft _hiss _and glow of red around the skull, the door swings open and she is hit with the smell of stale, stagnant air.

_Home._

She helps Cicero carry the coffin down the stairs of the Falkreath Sanctuary. Time feels especially slow with the matron’s body literally in their hands; she can’t help but wonder if Cicero feels the same. It’s a huge honor to even touch the coffin let alone assist in moving her into her new resting place. The walk from the entrance hall to the main level with the waterfall is a slow but rewarding process; when the two finally succeed in erecting the coffin straight-up next to the Sanctuary’s roaring waterfall, she can say in honesty she feels utterly proud of herself for the first time in a while. She catches Cicero dancing and she can’t help but take his hand and join him; the two dance around each other, with each other, and next to one another while another lady’s voice calls for meeting in the room.

Astrid is her name. Kara remembers her as the blond-haired woman with a sweet, sly tone that begs for her not think too hard on something. She’s the leader of the Brotherhood in Falkreath and respected by all members. Though the Listener knows how the storyline is supposed to end she remains uncertain on it at the present and opts to maintain neutral, formal ties with the future backstabber. When Astrid rallies the other Brotherhood members, she smiles and thanks the blond lady with a quick nod and humble glance. Cicero doesn’t bother with more than a boisterous, “Ha, ha, ha! Family is here! Family at last!”

There’s no more than a handful of members beyond Astrid. While Astrid seems to be the one taking the spotlight, Kara finds her gaze returning to the familiar sight of her fellow Brotherhood members in past playthroughs. She smiles at the white-haired werewolf man Arnbjorn, she nods politely at an old wizard by the name of Festus Krex, her head bows in respect when the Redguard Nazir strides by with scimitars in hand, and her eyes bug out when she lays her sights on the beautiful dark-elf Gabriella in all her magical mischief and mystery. A small girl of undeath, Babette, is the second to last member to join the group for their first official meeting. The vampire grins and shows her fangs at Kara; Kara cannot help but smile back and reveal her much-lesser canines.

Babette is either amused or annoyed. She doesn’t know which but hopes for the first.

Lastly comes an Argonian.

The swampy green scales remind her distinctly of a Christmas tree but the Dragonborn doesn’t dare voice the thought, knowing no one in the sanctuary—even the Night Mother—will understand what she talks of. Kara’s eyes soften at the sight of Veezara. He looks alive and thriving in his red-and-black Dark Brotherhood armor. The shrouded clothes fit his form and leave little to the imagination if one cares to look in that way.

“I hope you found the place all right.” Astrid clears her voice to indicate formalities have begun. She smiles and looks from Cicero to Kara. “You didn’t mention there was another… Cicero—”

“Keeper,” the jester corrects her with the same smile lingering on his lips. “Keeper.”

“Keeper. Yes. And her?” Kara finds Astrid’s finger points in her direction.

For a second the two lady’s eyes lock and the Dragonborn strains to breathe. Astrid’s gaze is oppressive and deadly. A fight with her would not go well and likely end in her loss if not for her access to the shouts of her dragon spirit. The Listener swallows and maintains eye contact a moment longer before giving up and directing her gaze to the side. It happens to fall on Babette and the vampire grins wildly at her.

“The Listener! Sweet, kindly stranger helped _poor _Cicero on the road! And who but the Listener shows up? The Listener is here! Our unholy matron has returned!” Cicero begins another jig with no care to the eyes of him.

Kara feels the gaze of all in the room shift slowly from Cicero back to her. She swallows. “I’m honored to be part of your family.” She almost says the lady’s name but bites back and swallows the damn thing, recalling Astrid has yet to introduce herself.

Astrid’s eyes narrow. She walks up to the Listener and looks her up and down. “_Our _family, my dearest. Our family. It is a bit sudden but—you start your new life in the Dark Brotherhood here. You’re part of our family now. Together, united, the Dark Brotherhood can accomplish anything,” the lady turns and gestures to all of the room, notably referencing the beautiful waterfall and natural lagoon that it falls into. “This, as you can see, is our sanctuary. You won’t find a safer place in all of Skyrim. So get comfortable.”

She nods and prays Astrid doesn’t pick up on the nervousness she radiates. She can’t help but reflect tension in her stiff, rigid posture. “Thank you.”

“I am Astrid, your mistress, your leader—the leader of this sanctuary. Do I make myself clear?” Astrid says slowly. “I am the leader here. _I am the leader of this sanctuary. _My word is law.” There’s no room for questions as she waves another Brotherhood member forward so proper introductions can take place.

Cicero smiles and rubs his hands together. “Oh, ho, ho, Cicero will remember that, yes mistress.”

“Keep talking like that, little man, and—” The white-haired werewolf man lets out a deep growl of warning.

“Oh, be quiet you lumbering lapdog!” Festus Krex butts into the sentence before Arnbjorn can finish it. The elderly member’s eyes display a fierce gleam of respect as he spreads his palms and grins crookedly at Cicero. “You and the Listener have had a long journey, haven’t you? The least lapdog here can offer is a token of civility. I for one am _delighted _at your arrival! You, the Listener, and our unholy matron? Sithis smiles indeed upon us. Your presence here is a welcome return to tradition, Keeper. I am Festus Krex.”

Kara finds herself relaxing as Festus Krex and Arnbjorn go back and forth a moment between the introductions. Though she’s never looked too deeply into Festus’ character before, in that moment her respect for the older mage deepens. She makes a note to speak to him later and ask him about the tenets.

Babette decides to go next. She skips forward and grins her toothy smile once more. It takes everything in the Dragonborn to remind herself that Babette is far, _far _from a young, sweet girl. The vampire is _old _and _deadly _in both skill and stature. Babette extends a single hand and states happily, “You’re going to love it here. We have a lot of fun, and we all look out for each other. Just like any family—I’m Babette.”

The darling undeath child does a curtsy. Her brown hair curls around her face and gives her a dangerously youthful appearance, befitting her vampire heritage. When Kara doesn’t reply right away Babette laughs and moves to Nazir’s side. The dark-skinned man shakes his head apologetically while Kara stares with a sudden somber look. The memories of her past playthroughs hit her hard and for a moment she’s in disbelief that the others standing before her are… alive.

“What’s your name, lamb steak?” The ‘lumbering lapdog’ grits his teeth and eyes her. His white hair embodies his fierceness almost as much as his bare, muscled arms.

She snaps upright and dares herself to meet his eyes. Astrid watches her from the side as she replies, “I’m the Listener. But—You can call me Kara. Like—”

“Like the Dragonborn? Oh, oh, oh, we’ve heard _many _things about that one, haven’t we? Astrid, didn’t you get a notice from the guards that someone’s been trying to perform the Black Sacrement to kill her?” Babette holds a hand to her mouth and laughs lightly. “Perhaps you can join us on that one, Kara! Wouldn’t that be fun? It could be your first kill—”

“She’s killed before.” It’s Gabriella’s turn to speak. The dark elf strides forward with a sway to her hips and a sassy smile gracing her lips. She stops but inches from Kara’s face and brings two hands up to trace the woman’s jawline.

Kara gawks and flushes. “Um—”

“It’s in your eyes, really. Your eyes—You have a strange energy about you, in them—They give and hold many secrets, Listener.” Gabriella’s voice makes the Dragonborn’s knees wobble. The dark elf releases her moments before Kara is sure she’s to pass out from lack of oxygen to her head. The dunmer smiles at her and slips back to where she stood before; her uniform’s long sleeves rustle as she moves. “I think she’ll fit in, Astrid. I like her tenacity. Her boldness! As long as she is polite, professional, and represents us well in her contracts, she will find her home here warm and welcoming.”

“Thank you for the unsolicited advice, Gabriella.” Astrid shakes her head. “There’s no issue with her being here—But I want her to be aware of the hierarchy. I’m in charge.”

“You’re in charge, mistress.” Kara breathes and nods.

Arnbjorn snorts. “Bootlicker.”

“You’d lick her boots if she asked, she’s your wife after all,” Festus jabs him in the side. “Can it and let the others speak, Arnbjorn.”

“Don’t push your luck, meat head.” The werewolf spits.

“Boys, boys! You are all acting like children!” Babette grimaces and shakes her head. “I will force paralysis potions down both of your throats if you don’t allow everyone their turn.”

“Thank you, Babette,” Astrid says. “Nazir.”

The Redguard from earlier steps up and bows formally to both Cicero and Kara. When he straightens upright his lips wear a taut, thin frown and his eyes betray the caution in his eyes. She can’t help but wonder what the story is; she can’t recall what his background is despite playing through the storyline so many times. Kara makes a second note, this time to inquire on Nazir’s origins and any other details he feels inclined to share.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Kara says.

Nazir laughs. He crosses his arms. “Save the niceties for now. I have no intention of getting invested in someone who may be dead tomorrow, Listener or not. If you’re still breathing in a few weeks, I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”

She doesn’t reply until Babette shoots her a warning look. The Listener quickly nods and swallows her nerves. “Right. Okay.”

“The white-haired stud calling you a lamb steak—That’s my lovely husband, Arnbjorn,” Astrid interjects into the conversation with a careful gaze locked on Kara. “You will show him respect, Listener, if you two cross paths in the future—which _will _happen. We are a family and as a family we help each other out time-to-time.”

“I understand,” the Dragonborn nods. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Actually—there’s one more.” It’s at this point Kara realizes everyone—save Cicero and Veezara—have stepped back. Astrid hums a short tune before looking from the Argonian to the Keeper. “Keeper, Cicero, do you recall one of the old initiation rites a newcomer must go through before becoming dark family?”

“Cicero would be a fool not to know, mistress!” The jester exclaims. He reacts positively to the fact Astrid refers to him as ‘Keeper,’ something Kara does not miss. Cicero begins to do a jig in delight. “The Listener will prove herself! Prove to all of us her ability to draw blood! For our unholy matron! For Sithis!”

“Normally we restrain from such… old ways—but this is a special occasion, Listener. You are the Listener after all. I trust you will be alright. Veezara,” Astrid steps to the side and Cicero moves likewise, leaving only the Argonian and Kara in the middle of the room. “Kill well and often.”

“Kill well and often.” The Argonian affirms.

Then he’s on her before she can think twice. The Listener finds herself sprung into close quarters combat as Veezara’s nimble form suddenly possesses two Daedric daggers. The tips glisten of poison and threaten with even the barest graze or scratch. She is forced backwards and for a moment she nearly topples into the waterfall but Kara dives to the right and ducks behind a stone pillar support. She barely has time to draw an arrow when Veezara drops from above and slams into her shoulder with his full body weight. She shoves him off and aims her arrow for his chest.

He dives into the water. She vaguely recalls a playthrough where her Argonian avatar could breathe indefinitely due to ‘Argonian lungs.’ The Listener backs away and looses an arrow at the spot she saw him dive. The arrow floats to the top after. Kara frowns and notches another arrow when an unusual gleam of a transparent outline shifts in her peripheral. She gawks at the invisible Argonian and shoots but the arrow slides an foot past his head and impales into the wall behind him. She hears him snort and her brows furrow.

Kara dumps her bows and arrows and traces her steps back to the far side of the room. A Daedric dagger whizzes through the air and she feels it cut through a lock of her hair as she skirts death by inches. Veezara’s potion wears off in time for her to witness him charging her from the side with both daggers poised for her torso—_How many damn daggers can an Argonian carry!?_

The Listener opts for an offensive and rushes the Argonian head-on. She dips to the side at the last second and reaches a hand out for his body. It connects; she and him go toppling to the ground and tumbling over each other while his two Daedric daggers screech as they slide across the floor. She feels him kick and shove and push at her and she curses internally and out as she bashes her forehead against his. It’s not hard enough to draw blood but it momentarily stuns him and she throws two swings into his face before he catches her and they begin the dance of rolling around and trying to pin the other. She waits until he’s flipping her over before she brings her knees to her chest and aims a kick at his solar plexus. The Argonian growls as he is sent back several feet and he slams into a pillar support.

Kara crawls for his daggers but Veezara is fast; the Argonian gets to her before she can snatch them up. He pulls her back by her foot and jumps on her. One hand remains on her foot and it pulls her leg backward at an angle that quickly becomes painfully uncomfortable. Kara gasps and cries out but she continues to struggle against him; Veezara’s grip solidifies with his other leg digging into her chest. She hisses and squirms before giving up and panting heavily. The Argonian doesn’t look smug; his face holds nothing for her as he hesitantly releases her and stands.

“You were good. I was better,” Veezara holds a hand out to her. “It is the way of things. Don’t take it seriously; it was a strong fight.”

She takes his hand and grins. The Dragonborn wrenches him back towards her and she forces her elbow into his throat. He gasps at the impact and she throws him to the side before he can sink his claws back into her. Kara reaches the Daedric blades and she grabs one, turns, and throws before she has time to consider her actions let alone think. The dagger connects and Veezara lets out a loud hiss of agony before falling to his knees and clutching his elbow. Kara looks over.

She’s hit a joint. It will put the arm out of commission for at least a week if not a month. Though she feels concern for the Argonian her initial thought is not of his wellbeing but of the dark sanguine-red liquid that darkens his armor. She gawks and runs to his side.

_“You sneaky woman.”_ Veezara breathes slowly. “You did not fight fair.”

“I didn’t. We don’t fight fair—we fight to kill.” Kara grits her teeth as she looks at the wound. She applies pressure and glances over her shoulder to the hushed crowd—save for Cicero, whom dances as if the jester was just gifted a golden goose.

She hears Astrid clap.

“What a treat to see our little Argonian lose. You should be proud. This is… not usual,” Astrid waves Babette over and the small vampire comes running with a bag of potions and various alchemy ingredients. Astrid’s gaze returns to the Listener. “You fought past the point of defeat. That’s good. We always fight to our bitter end, Listener. Always. Until our last breath or until the contract is completed. Perhaps you will find your place yet in our family. Welcome, again.”

“Yes,” the word comes from nearby, where she finds Veezara gritting his teeth and wincing as Babette applies a strange salve before tying clean linens over his wound. She picks out several potions and hands them over. “All of them, Babette?”

“Every last drop. Or I’ll make you drink more.” The vampire warns.

Veezara uncorks one potion with his good arm and hand. He throws his head back and downs it. From his expression, the Listener knows it is a poor taste. She respects his dedication to not show the displeasure to Babette.

“Sorry,” Kara mumbles when the crowd has dispersed and only she, Cicero, and Veezara are left.

Cicero tends to the Night Mother’s coffin while Veezara sits at a rock near the waterfall and watches her intently. She lets herself take off her boots and shin guards; her feet go into the water and the Listener gasps in surprise at the soothing, sweet sensations. “Ah, that’s nice. That’s nice.” She shuts her eyes. “But I am sorry. I thought it would be less impairing and more… lacerating?”

“Do not apologize for good work. You would have killed if you were told to kill. That is the purpose of the Dark Brotherhood.” The Argonian pauses. “I didn’t have the opportunity to share of myself to you, Listener. I am Veezara. You have made the right choice, joining us, I assure you.”

“I hope so.” Kara smiles and nods. _It better be. I won’t let this storyline go off-script. I won’t. Not more than It has._

For a moment all either hear is the sound of Cicero humming and talking to himself in addition to the ambient roar of the waterfall. Kara breathes silently. Veezara watches her. She takes some water in her hands and douses her face with it. She scrubs off what she can of old dirt and grime without fully undressing. Mid-way through, the woman stiffens when she catches Veezara staring at her. She eyes him back. A faint heat pools in her stomach and she can't dismiss it regardless of how many times she tells herself that 'it' isn't happening.

“So… If you don’t mind…” She gestures to the waterfall. Veezara glances at it but does nothing; Kara shrugs and goes back to washing her neck, hands, and ears. “Well if you are going to be like that—at least tell me a little bit about yourself. Veezara.”

“You wish to know? It is not an interesting tale,” the Argonian tilts his head to one side. His eyes feel like a probe over her skin which incites an interesting reaction she pretends not to notice. Veezara, thank the Gods, continues like nothing is wrong. “Once, I was a Shadowscale. An assassin in service to the King of Black Marsh. Trained by the Dark Brotherhood the day of my hatching. Ah, but that was a lifetime ago.” Veezara bows his head and looks at his wound. “Today, I am the last of my kind.”

“I’m sorry—” She blurts out without thinking.

The Argonian raises a brow at her before he shrugs and sits cross-legged on the floor. “Don’t be. Yes, my order is extinct. But I now happily serve Astrid, and this sanctuary. I am a trained killer, and have once again have been given purpose. Life is good.”

It’s a strangely positive outlook despite the circumstances surrounding his character. The Listener slowly nods as she soaks up his words. She finishes what little washing she can manage without indecency, and then moves to plop near Veezara on the cold stone floor. Though he gives her a look she shakes her head and crosses her arms with all the stubbornness she can muster. “Don’t say it. I won’t move. I got you hurt and—And now we’re considered family, right? So I have to keep an eye out for you until you heal. And I am _very _stubborn at this so don’t think about trying to dissuade me.”

Veezara smiles faintly before his lips relax to a neutral expression. He shrugs. “As you wish, Listener.”

It’s good to be home.


	11. a darkness lovely, so lovely, as you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she goes to riften to complete her first contract for the dark brotherhood. it's an interesting place with thieves and guards and a jester who may have followed her from falkreath.

She finds time to bond with her fellow Brotherhood members over the next three weeks. There’s an excitement in her eyes whenever she gets to talk to the different members and ask them about their history as killers. Some of the information she remembers but most feels brand-new and she can’t help but listen intently whenever someone starts talking. The lovely Gabriella is one of her favorites to pry at; the graceful sorcerer is a capable and charismatic conversationalist.

“What a curious question to ask. You like to ask those types of questions,” the lady states one day after Kara shoots off another question about herself. “Well, I enjoy moonlit nights, taking long walks on the beach, knitting, and unicorns. In fact, I once took a seaside stroll on a moonlit night, and discovered a unicorn! Which I proceeded to stab in the throat with one of my crochet needles.”

Gabriella enjoys fucking with people, it turns out. She’s good at it. Kara can’t help but nod in awe anyways. Her bisexual heart increases in size whenever she and Gabriella make eye contact, but the same can be said for whenever she and several other Brotherhood members brush by each other in the hall. It’s hard to not be aroused when everyone in the Brotherhood wears skin-tight suits that conform to every last muscle. Each of the Brotherhood seems to have at least two sets fitted to their body shape. Gabriella knows how to sew them, it turns out, and by the end of the first week Kara too has several sets of the shrouded armor in her arsenal.

It takes her a day to find the courage to wear them. Sometimes, the armor feels so tight against her body it comes off as constricting and suffocating. Other times she puts it on and the elegant armor feels like nothing is there and she’s taken up nudism as a sport. How the hell Gabriella could pin her measurements from a distance is not something Kara bothers dwelling upon.

She finds time to say hello to more members. Babette is the only member besides Cicero that doesn’t wear the Brotherhood attire. The tiny vampire opts for innocent child skirts and shirts that truly wrap up any doubts a stranger might have about her hypothetical youth. Kara learns Babette enjoys messing with people, too, as if everyone in the Brotherhood are acceptable targets for pranks rather than mass-murderers and killers-for-hire. Babette and her _do_ manage to bond over alchemy and potion-brewing. She’s good but not great and the undeath companion quickly offers a few tips and pointers when a potion nearly _explodes _in the Listener’s face.

To her surprise, the Night Mother speaks no more to her over the weeks. Kara occasionally hears snippets of other members quietly gossiping and inquiring if she really _is _a Listener. She ignores them, knowing the time will come where she proves herself.

Though Cicero tends daily to the Night Mother’s remains—oiling is a tricky and slow process—when he is not busied by his duties, the man follows Kara around. She doesn’t mind. The two spend spare time dancing to music that isn’t there, passing jokes, and reveling in Nazir’s scandalously good cooking.

It’s not missed on Kara that many members of the Brotherhood don’t take Cicero seriously. Her heart hurts whenever she sees one dismiss his concerns or claims of authority as Keeper.

“Maybe we should ask Astrid to bring in a professional dancer. Teach us how to shimmy,” Kara suggests one afternoon when the two eat lunch in the Brotherhood’s large dining hall. “I think you would be good at it.”

Cicero’s mouth is full of cooked fish. He attempts to answer but the food falls out in chunks and Kara can't cease her laughter. Nearby—she hears Nazir complain about wasting the fruits of his labor.

_“Sorry,”_ she mouths at Nazir.

“Cicero is—Cicero knows many things—Dancing things—Sweet Listener wants to learn? Cicero can teach! Cicero knows _many _dancing things—” The jester hums and claps at the idea. He begins to sway like an unsung melody has sounded across the hall.

Kara relaxes and joins him in his swaying. She can imagine what the song would be like: five simple notes strung with precision by experienced hands. It wouldn’t be a parade’s ensemble but an intimate, relaxing session with a private bard. It’s a nice thought against all the other problems she struggles not to think of. When Cicero stands up to dance—She takes his offered hand and the two spin and twirl into their silent music.

“Do you like it here?” Kara asks when the two settle into what she can only think of as the _classic highschool slow dance. _Cicero’s hands on her hips and her hands on his shoulders feel right and _good_. The proximity leaves her body tingling with electricity underneath her skin. Nazir probably thinks the two are fucking by this point—He’s gone somewhere else and she can’t say she misses him.

The jester’s half-grin is dazzling. “Cicero is happy to have family again. Cicero spent many, many months alone, all alone! Alone, alone, alone! But kindly stranger popped up to save him! Warm, lovely stranger helped him and Mother. And beautiful, dancing stranger,” He swoops in close and presses his forehead to her. The closeness startles her a moment before she’s lost in the jester’s radiant eyes. Cicero hums in delight. “Perfect, strong, wonderful stranger turned out to be _Listener. _Listener brought our matron back! Back, back, back from the silence! Cicero could roll in chains and rags and be as joyous as the Void is dark!”

When he draws away, she lets out a breathe she isn’t aware she held. Cicero stops dancing with her and does a quick jig on his own before he’s back at the table and scarfing down fish and broth. The slurping noises are so out-of-place Kara does nothing but smile. Her body feels warm from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

_You would have made a good Listener, Cicero. _She joins him at the table and makes a point to compliment his quick footwork. It’s apparently good for side-stepping strikes while getting up close and personal with ebony daggers.

Though others describe the duo as Cicero hounding her _relentlessly_, she cherishes his company. During one of the few hours of the day Cicero is occupied, Kara decides to check in on the Argonian member of the Brotherhood. She finds Veezara in the main room near the waterfall and peers at him with a hopeful smile.

“Sister,” Veezara nods respectfully. “Listener. What can I do for you?”

_Though it’s kind of weird we use titles like that when I want to jump half of this place. Sister... Brother… I know we call ourselves a ‘family’ but… _Kara tucks a strand of her behind one ear and manages a firm smile. “Veezara—I hope you don’t mind if I sit here. I may sit here either way and I don’t want us to get into another tussle because I’m stubborn as a horse.”

The Argonian’s soft chuckle indicates his approval. His tail flicks slowly to the seat near him. “No, no. All is well. You may join me. You do not need but to ask, Listener.”

“That’s why I asked.” The Dragonborn sits nice and close to him. She reaches for his arm and gives him a look that silently inquires if it’s okay to check the injury. Veezara extends his arm in response and she gingerly unwraps linens until the sight of his delicate scales and signs of the wound emerge. “Gabriella hasn’t sewn the hole in this? She’s good at patching things.”

“Aye, yes, she is. But it does not seem essential right now. Astrid informed me I am not to take a contract until my arm is healed,” Veezara doesn’t seem bothered by the concept of missing out on work. He smiles. “My own blades against me—It was a good fight that day, Listener. Though I am immune to many poisons it appears at least one of them stifled the healing progress of this wound. A convenient way to confirm the efficiency of the toxins without the trouble of finding a stray to test it on.” The Argonian’s tail curls in such a way that it occasionally against her body. His scales, even over her armor, have a distinct rise to them.

He’s amused by her incessant stares. At one point, after she is satisfied with the healing rate of his arm and has wrapped it in clean linens, Veezara takes her hand and calmly lifts it to his face.

“You are curious about my scales.” The Argonian observes. “It is better to resolve your curiosity now than be distracted on a contract.”

Kara’s entire face is beet-red. She chokes back many words and sounds that are not appropriate for a casual interaction between two comrades. She glances around the room’s many in’s and out’s to confirm no one else is present before her other hand joins the first. Her brows furrow and rise in surprise as her hands trace over the different scales of Veezara’s face. Some are smoother than others, many have a gradient of greens in their depths, and a few scales closer to where his brows begin thicken and jut out. To Kara, it feels like every scale is something new to explore. She can’t take her hands off him.

Somewhere in the back of her head she’s goddamn grateful he isn’t Sanguine because the Daedric Prince would never shut up about it.

Kara spends a time with the Argonian. Her fingers are always gentle and she’s respectful not to stray too far. Her thumbs trace over his jawline, her fingers poke or swirl circles on his cheeks, and her mind reels at how normal the seemingly-intimate touches are. Veezara doesn’t seem bothered and he’s definitely not aroused by soft hands fingering each of his scales across his face.

She, on the other hand…

The Listener swallows. She feels her hands shake. It’s hard to admit she wants to _do things _but after so much trauma related to physical intimacy, she can’t help doubting herself. _Is this right? Am I okay to feel this? Will I get in trouble? Will he be mad if I ask about it? I want to—I want to know more—_

“Veezara, give our Listener a break. You’re making her melt.” The voice of Astrid calls from behind.

Kara freezes. Her hands are still on the Argonian, her fingers mid-stroke of the scales lining his temple. She stammers and sputters as she withdraws her hands and hurriedly stands up.

“Well, then. It appears you are right, Astrid,” the Argonian gives Kara a quick scan and smiles. “I didn’t realize it was having that effect. My apologies, Listener.”

Kara can only mumble a mishmash of syllables. She finds every excuse possible to not look at his face, though the one glance she steals at the end confirms his amusement over the whole situation.

“I need to speak with you. Kara.” Astrid pulls her up the stairs and out of the main room. There’s an entrance hall that connects it and the entrance. Astrid directs her to a stone seat there and she makes a point of standing after Kara sits. “I think the time has come for you to kill.”

The Listener’s body relaxes. The flying spaghetti monster help her—If Astrid begun pressing about what just occurred with Veezara… She does not know if she could ever face the world let alone the Brotherhood again.

“Who?” Is all she asks.

“The old hag who owns the orphanage in Riften, that lovely city on the south-eastern side of Skyrim. Home of a guild we occasionally have dealings with. Do you know the Thieves Guild, Kara? Greedy man, that Mercer, but we've worked together in the past,” Astrid puts one hand on the table to keep herself propped upright. Her eyes bear holes into Kara as she continues. “This contract came from a very special client. A kid, actually; one that lived through the hellhole owned by the old bitch. He asked we make it _horrifying._ You can if you want—but he’s already paid, so as long as the target winds up dead it doesn’t matter. Here’s a dossier on your target; I’ve worked hard to put together information on this one and I want you to make us all proud.”

“I will.” The Listener swears on it. _This must be the young boy’s contract. The one that helps initiate the player into the Dark Brotherhood storyline. Is the game—World?—trying to patch things up and make sense where glitches happen?_

“Good. Good. You’ll leave immediately; it’s a long horseback ride to Riften and this lady needs to be killed as quickly as possible.” Astrid says. She pauses and looks back in the direction of the staircase to the main hall. “—One other thing. This is _your _contract. You are not permitted to take others with you. Understand? It is your kill, my dearest. You will make it on your own terms and claim the soul in the name of Sithis.”

_Oh. Cicero can’t come. _Kara frowns but nods. _No, that makes sense. He must tend to his Keeper duties. Those responsibilities are sacred. _

She finds Astrid far away one minute and the next extremely close. The blond-woman ruffles her hair and leans down to the Dragonborn’s ear. “And I know Arnbjorn and I are married—But I recommend against fraternizing with your fellow Brotherhood. We do not need twisted emotions distracting us if things don’t work out.”

Astrid is gone before the Dragonborn can bullshit an explanation. She decides to head out on the contract as quickly as possible; not even her shrouded armor’s mask can hide the embarrassment abundant in her face. Velvet is thankfully still outside when she departs the sanctuary later that day, and the two make for Riften. It’s a weeks-trip getting there thanks to unfortunate weather and aggravatingly repetitive bandits. The occasional dragon thrown in the mix doesn’t help her or her horse’s fearful demeanor once the roars begin sounding in the distance.

Riften comes into view an hour before dusk of the seventh day. The guards demand a fee for entering the port town and she reluctantly pays it, if only to shut them up. She’s forced to leave her beloved Velvet at the local stables before venturing inside Riften's walls. A long-sleeved red tunic dons her form and flowers wonderfully over her shrouded armor underneath, save for the gloves and mask.

The town is an oddity to outsiders. There are multiple levels divided not only by upper and lower but also by the channel that runs through the city and connects to larger bodies of water to the east. Beautiful plant life twists and twirls, clings and climbs the sides of modest stone homes and interesting inns. A central plaza on the upper district of the town marks Riften’s open market; it connects not only the community of vendors to one another but also leads to the Jarl’s keep and Temple of Mara directly in front of and to the left of the shops. Riften guards move out of the way as she passes by; they keep an eye on her at first but once she shows no sign of causing trouble they cease their snooping and turn away to stalk other visitors.

The first thing Kara finds is not the orphanage but a man in plated armor and dark brown hair, along with vicious, watchful eyes, leaning against one wooden support for the few mansions hoisted off the ground. She eyes him carefully and doesn’t show any reaction when he snaps at her. “Hey, you. Get over here. I want to talk to you.”

The Dragonborn exhales slowly. “Yes?”

“I don’t know you.” The man’s armor clinks as he walks over to her. He’s taller than her by a good few inches and his face hints at old scars. “You in Riften lookin’ for trouble?”

“What’s it to you?” She can’t resist blurting out the words. She stiffens and inches backward when the man throws his head back to laugh. “What?”

“Don’t say something you’ll regret.” He grunts and turns away. “Last thing the Black-Briars want is someone meddling in their business, some stranger stickin’ their nose where it don’t belong…”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Kara says under breath as she watches him stride away.

_So I triggered Maul’s cutscene like normal. Got through that. The orphanage is by the keep. But I should scope things out first? Get a routine? Familiarize myself with the in’s and out’s? _She walks across a bridge that spans the canal bisecting the town. It’s a strange layout but the snaking water gives Riften it’s own sense of character in comparison to Whiterun or Dawnstar. _Astrid said the client wants this contract to be horrifying. Gruesome? Bloody? I need to know the exits and entrances, then. I can’t risk being caught on this one. _

She pushes past several citizens and travelers eying a dark elf’s cuts of meat at her wagon-stall. Kara’s mouth waters and she forces herself to ignore the sight. Even if she _longs _for a well-cooked steak, or burger, or—

“Never done an honest day’s work for all that coin you’re carrying, eh, lass?” A charming voice interjects as a man steps into Kara’s path to block her. He smiles widely and gives her a once-over before turning and snapping at her to follow him the two steps back to a rather strange-looking stall.

It’s not set up like others, with merchandise and fanciful gimmicks or gizmos for sale. There’s many signs, yes, but—that’s it. All Kara sees is signs. She gawks at the outrageous amount of signs that span the man’s stall. _Brynjolf—This is not what you normally sell! This is out of the question! Are you trying to be a life guru? What kind of—_She pulls at her hair with her hands. Lucky her, the nordic man misses her ridiculous gesture; by the time Brynolf looks to her she’s returned to a calm if not curious composure.

“C’mon now, lass. Won’t hurt you to look.” He calls. His pearly whites show in a grin.

_It’s another scripted encounter. Or—Scripted event in this world. Whatever it is I am a part of it. I can just play it out like normal and then ignore him from here on out, right? _The Dragonborn’s brows furrow. She crosses her arms. “What are you trying to get at, Brynjolf?”

“Ah, lass, I didn’t tell you my name.”

_Fuck._

She could still save this—double back, keep her calm—the woman clears her throat. “I’ve heard the other vendors call you it before. Pardon me if we never met.”

“You’re pardoned.” His eyes are abundantly humored. At least he won’t try to murder her like Cicero did for her slip-up, but she doubts he’ll let her walk away without hearing him out. “It’ll only take you a moment—You’ll like what I have to say.”

Kara sighs and throws her hands up in defeat. “Please do us both a favor and get to the part where I do something for you. What do you have in mind? Who am I toying with, harassing, or...?”

"Simple,” the ginger motions for her to come close. He whispers into her ear. “I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal Madesi's silver ring from a strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing."

“—And I have no recollection of who those are—” Kara protests.

“Madesi, he’s the Argonian,” Brynjolf points him out at a stall sporting beautiful Argonian jewelry, no doubt hand-crafted and produced with love. The man nudges her in the direction of a dark elf across the plaza, one whose stall looks emptier than the others. “Brand-Shei.”

“You really want me to do this?” The Dragonborn peers at Brynjolf from the side. She frowns. There’s something almost sincere and endearing about how _excited _the man becomes when he talks about mischief. “What’s in it for me? Don’t say gold. I don’t need gold. I really, really don’t need gold,” she emphasizes the statement with a dark stare. “What else can you offer?”

Brynjolf raises a brow. He scratches his upper lip with a finger and smiles. “Ah. You want more than wealth and riches? Tough catch, lass.”

“I’ll become a lot less tough when you stop being cryptic.” She grumbles. Her patience has its limits.

“Information. I see it now. You walk into Riften a certain way, lass, and what you want reeks a mile away—You come here for a purpose, yes?” The man waits for her nod of agreement before continuing, “I know the in’s and out’s, up’s and down’s of Riften. I know every lock, window, door, and guard’s pockets like the back of my hand. If gold won’t do it for you then perhaps information will. You interested?” Brynjolf’s eyes twinkle.

_God damnit. I am not becoming a Nightingale. Especially after Sanguine said my soul is the equivalent of ecstasy to Skyrim’s Divines. _She clenches her eyes shut and sucks in a deep breath. _But it will help… I need to do this kill right. I want to make the family proud. And hopefully give Astrid less reason to want to stab me in the back later on. _

She realizes the red-haired fellow holds out a hand for her to shake. She can’t help but snort at the realization of his atrociously-colored clothes: the yellows and reds look vile side-by-side, but she finds herself unable to tear her eyes away from the color swatches. She hurriedly shakes his hand and hears him chuckle. “Let’s get to work, lass. You move over to Madesi’s stall and I’ll…”

Kara moves before the conman finishes his sentence. She makes a beeline for the Argonian’s stall and finds herself ooh’ing and ah’ing at the jewelry he offers. For a second she forgets what she’s doing and pulls out her coin purse. _It’s personal expenses. Only personal expenses. So. Personal expenses. Pretty jewelry. I wonder if Veezara ever sees Argonians in Skyrim wearing jewelry like this and thinks of home?... Should I get him one? Oh--The ring--! I should get him a ring. A 'sorry-I-stabbed-you' ring. _The answer is yes as not thirty-seconds later she’s handing over stacks on stacks of beautiful gold coins.

Madesi thanks her with a wide-grin and hands her a small silver ring that at first glance appears to be nothing more than a simple banded design. Kara is pleased to find out the ring, when she turns it, has the design of a snake attempting to eat itself. It’s clever and sneaky and seems perfectly suited for the Dark Brotherhood member she fawns over. Kara is so pleased by her purchase she spaces out on what Brynjolf asked of her. She wanders around the shops, peruses items, and sells a few trinkets she picked up on the road from Falkreath before Brynjolf finally runs out of nonsense to speak and ends his sales ruse. She jumps when he taps her on the shoulder.

She spins on her heels and for a moment her hands go to the daggers stuffed into the sleeves of her tunic. “—Brynjolf.”

She lowers her hands to her side. _I know you saw that. I know you know I’m volatile and prone to sudden outbursts if you step on my toes. So help me, Brynjolf. _

“Given our luck lately it doesn’t surprise me someone forget her lines.” Brynjolf’s eyes narrow. “Still, still, lass, I say you might have a chance. You took initiative in going to the stall. If it weren’t for those lovely silver rings you’d have done it, yeah?”

The Dragonborn nods slowly. “Yes. I can say I would have.”

_I won’t condemn an innocent man. _She knows she said those words—or some variant of—to Loreius when Cicero needed help. Kara feels sick in her stomach but not surprised at her own hypocrisy. _If this is my life now, I must accept it and I have to do what’s needed to secure my well-being._

“What information you need of me?” Brynjolf peers at her curiosly.

She blinks and finds her eyes meeting his. “You’ll still assist me?”

“If you are of the type I think you may be—It’d be wise for our respective companies to remain on good terms.” The man grins at her. “You understand me, lass? I may have mistaken you a common thief at first, but I get it now. You like the shadows.”

“And you your coin.” She scans the plaza for guards and turns away from him. “Now that you mention it—It would be good to keep each other company. Let’s take a walk. I had a few questions about the orphanage.”

Brynjolf of Riften’s notorious Thieves Guild is a charming conversationalist and had it been another playthrough perhaps she’d have contemplated pursuing something with the sauntering ginger. She keeps her temptations and desires to herself and mentally screeches at a certain Daedric Prince not to mess with things more than they already are. In exchange for what turns out to be a stack of gold and one of her healing potions, she’s given all the information she needs on Honorhall Orphanage and her target: Grelod the Kind. The wilted old lady is as nasty as her name, according to Brynjolf, and he goes so far to claim not a single guard in town will miss her.

Though Kara knows the _game _works like that she struggles to understand if anything really is a game or if the world is simply a bizarre universe where _Skyrim _is real and she’s a hero of prophecy. She makes plans to go in just past midnight that evening when the guards are busy swapping shifts. Brynjolf wishes her luck, tells her to stop by the Guild in the future, and the two split ways before the sun sets.

Come midnight, when the shadows are darkest and the night sky lit solely by what stars weavearound clouds, Kara leaves her dress in a corner by the Blacksmith’s smithery. She triple-checks for guards and casts a small Flames spell on the fabric. It burns in seconds. Just as Kara locks a part of herself under her own mask, the Dragonborn disappears behind the Listener’s mask and shrouded leather armor. She runs a hand up and down her chest piece. Each of Gabriella’s delicate stitches gives her another inch of confidence. She adjusts her daggers and straps extras to pockets in her shin guards, tucks potions into belt loops, and casts a Muffle spell on herself silently to mask any unnecessary noises. Then she surges forward. The shadows hide her and urge her on as the Listener slips by chatting guards and heads for the orphanage.

The building is dark, save for a fair-sized room in the back where an old lady sits at a desk and smiles wickedly to herself. The Listener reaches for the window adjacent the wall behind Grelod the Kind and finds it unlocked. _Just as Brynjolf said. I’ll have to thank him sometime. _

It slides open.

There’s no sound as the Listener's body slinks from night air to the warmth of the orphanage. Candles cast dancing shadows. As she walks up with one dagger raised, the old lady suddenly pushes her chair back into her. The Listener’s eyes narrow and she grabs Grelod before the woman has time to react. She slams the elder’s face into the corner of the chair and splits her head open from the impact. The lady flails and cries out but the Listener _listens _and stuffs a potion down her throat. The acid takes effect quickly enough; it burns and hisses as blood pours out of Grelod’s throat and chest. Tissue dissolves and the Listener lets the woman drown in misery on the ground.

_No point in getting my feet wet. _The Listener exhales slowly. Her nerves are more tangled and strung-out than she wants them to be.

Then she hears the scream.

For a moment she fears her concoction was not nearly as potent as necessary for a feeble old lady. But—It is not Grelod the Dead that screams; it is the lovely dark-skinned maiden who the Listener vaguely recalls learning about from Brynjolf earlier that day. _The assistant. There’s an assistant. And she—She came to check—The chair? That small cry? She cared enough to check on this hag? _Her hands shake but she stills them with a deep breathe. The assistant begins to scream and shriek and back away from the door that leads from Grelod’s room to the rest of the orphanage.

_No witnesses. _The Listener slits the assistants throat with an apologetic glance. She holds the struggling woman down and strokes her head until she passes. When the lady expires she shuts her eyes and places her gently on the floor.

The shouts of guards rings loud and clear. The Listener snaps to attention and bolts for the window. It’s a mistake; the guards come from the right side where the window leads directly into a cornered walkway. The group of guards blocks her escape route along the walkway. She doesn’t doubt another pack of guards exists and is heading for the orphanage’s front entrance. Though she can try the windows inside in hopes the building isn’t surrounded—_Ping! _An arrow bounces off the windowsill near her head and adrenaline makes her decision for her. She jumps the railing and falls into the canal waters below. Guards shout and footsteps stomp along the ground as she pulls herself up unto the lower level of Riften and bolts wildly.

She can’t remember which direction is what. The arrow grazed her, she shudders, and judging from the sweats sneaking up on her she becomes vividly aware she has been poisoned. Steps become hard but she forces herself forward and runs around the inner circle of wooden bridges lining the lower floor. She freezes as a pair of hands reach from her in the shadows and pull her in. The Listener attempts to struggle but the poison in her system makes her muscles weak and she flails miserably while the man holding her hushes her and leads her into an old, grime-riddled door. A nasty stench explodes when the door is opened but she’s ushered in regardless and made to walk until she’s in the darkness of a place she forgot existed.

“Ratways?” The Listener mumbles. “Where…” It’s hard to talk.

“Shh, shh, sweet, lovely Listener—Cicero said he would not let anyone harm the Listener!” The familiar voice nearly causes her to cry on the spot—in joy.

Her chest heaves; she shudders and clings to the now-familiar smell of the jester’s motley. _How _and _why _are two questions she doesn’t bother with. Cicero keeps his steps light and urges them both on despite her body protesting the slightest movement. She feels blood trickle down her forehead where the arrow nailed her and in her sluggish state the Listener wipes it around her face lazily.

Behind them, in the distance, she hears the doors of the Ratway slam open and the sounds of guards explode. Their shouts make her flinch and her breathing speeds up; she begins to inch toward Cicero closer and hold unto him more tightly than before. He doesn’t stop until he finds the tiniest, most out-of-the-way hiding hole behind one particularly nasty bend. Cicero let’s her go first. He stops and looks back before he joins her in the darkness. She collapses with her back to the wall and shivers while her hands grope helplessly around her belt.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Bad. Bad,” The Listener shivers and hangs her head. Her hands shake too much and her heart pounds too fast for her to get the potion of _cure poison _from her belt. She turns to Cicero and finds the outline of his head in the dark. “Cicero. _Please. _I need—”

“Listener was hurt? How?” The jester picks up on what she asks of him and kneels. His hands slip to her hips and carefully drum across a series of potions.

Each vial has their own unique indent or bump near the top rim. It’s a way to differentiate between them without speaking the names aloud or needing light to read labels. Cicero finds and retrieves the _cure poison _potion after many long, aching seconds. He uncorks it as quietly as he can and raises it to her lips. She gratefully swallows the bitter liquid. Her head falls forward and she unintentionally finds herself leaning against his chest. He’s warm and needs a bath but it’s a smell that comforts her against the panic jolting her system. She feels his hands go to her forehead and lightly run over the scratch to her temple.

“They hurt the lovely, kind, dancing listener. Cicero will not forgive them for this.” Cicero’s words are _outraged_. He strokes her head and she shudders against him.

She clenches her eyes shut. “They—Poisoned arrows. I forgot the target had an assistant. Had to—No witnesses. None. Fuck. I messed up." 

“Listener will not fall to the feeble attempts of silly men with silly helmets and silly, silly, silly ideas,” The jester hums thoughtfully. “No, no. Cicero will protect the Listener. Listener must get home to Mother! To Listen!”

“There’s a lot of them. I… I don’t know—I don’t—What to—What to do—Don’t know what to do, Cicero—I—I don’t know a way out of the Ratway—There’s so many of them—I can’t—” She shudders and draws back. Though she can’t make out Cicero’s face in the dark—she swears, for a moment, his body posture changes. To what, she doesn’t know. The Listener can’t dwell on the thought. She pulls herself to her feet but finds her balance remains off and her hands still shake. Her heart goes—_thud, thud, thud, THUD—_in her ears.

_Oh. _It suddenly registers in her mind what is happening.

Her breathing continues to speed up. She reaches out for Cicero’s form again and grabs his arm. He’s the closest thing to an anchor she has. The swell of panic rises in her chest and she clenches her eyes shut to block out the invasive emotions. Her head screams internally as the panic churns from a simple wave to a howling maelstrom.

It’s the guards. It’s their shouts. It’s their boots and screeches and sounds of them slamming doors in the Ratway and throwing things amuck in their search for _her_. Her mind goes back to a memory from her past where she’s but twenty-five and sobbing in the middle of the bathroom. The door to the bathroom is locked but a force pounds against it and slams two-hundred pounds worth of body weight over and over and over. The door frame begins to crack. Each impact registers as loudly to her in the present as it did back then. She flinches and gasps and her breathing becomes short and light: painful. Her chest heaves. _It wasn’t just the poison. It wasn’t just—It’s just a memory—It’s not—It’s not happening—It’s not here—Not here—He’s not here!_

The Listener is trapped in the depths of a panic attack. Her hyperventilating picks up and increases in volume while her lungs beg for air in gasps and shakes. Cicero grabs unto her and looks at her in confusion. She doesn’t expect him to understand! How could anyone understand? She can’t up and shout that her husband from the _real world _is the reason she’s like this! It’s so shameful—_she feels shameful! _Everything weighs on her shoulders and her eyes spring with tears and she finds she can no longer breathe. The jester next to her says something but she can’t hear much of it beyond a few end words— “Listener—Listener—Please, oh, please, Listener, breathe—_Listener!”_

She can’t focus.

“Oh, no, no, not good, not good! Bad, bad, bad! Cicero is no fool but of Hearts!” Cicero’s voice sounds far away. “Cicero will not let them hurt you, kind Listener! Cicero is a dutiful Keeper! Cicero will keep Mother’s chosen one safe!”

_He’s not here. _She tries to reason. The logical side of her mind doesn’t penetrate the thick fog of visceral emotions ranting and raving across her head. _I’m scared of him. _

As the guards increase in volume a part of her becomes horrifyingly aware of the fact they are getting closer. They’re going to find them both. She can’t fight in her current state and there’s likely too many for one assassin—even if she has no doubt Cicero is highly capable. She can’t focus enough to recount the extent of his skills as a follower from past playthroughs. She can’t think far enough ahead to calculate the likelihood of her shouts being effective enough for Cicero to pick them off. Her lightheaded-ness causes her to fall but Cicero’s hands grab unto her and keep her steady.

“Kindly, dancing Listener,” Cicero says softly. It’s a gentle tone. He’s picked up something is very wrong with her, she’s certain.

Her vision is too garbled and clouded by the dark to make rhyme or reason but she holds unto him anyways. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Her voice comes out in soft cries and gasps. “Not fight. Not fight. Not fight.”

“Shh, shh, I know, yes, the fool always knows,” the jester laughs lightly before his tone shifts back to reflect the solemn state of their circumstances. “Listener—You trust Cicero, right? You dance with him? You dance with the Fool, Listener, the Fool of Hearts! You spin and you twirl and you follow and he leads! Cicero knows to lead.” She finds one of his hands moves to her hip. Another clasps her hand and their fingers interlace. He has a warm hand. His body draws close enough to her own for her mind to register the two’s heat; it’s a welcome distraction from everything else.

Cicero takes a step out of their hiding place. He urges her to join him, his hands pushing her when she’s too frozen to react. Her body moves weakly but she keeps herself upright enough to look at him in the now-dim light.

“He’ll find me.” Kara whispers. “He’s coming. He’s coming. _He’ll get me.”_

The jester dips his head in close and stops by her ear. He whispers softly. “Cicero will protect his Listener—just as the fool will dance for his queen.”

And as the guards turn the corner, Cicero leads her into a dance. It starts slow, gentle, but picks up the second one of the guards comes close enough to strike them. When a body is in reach Cicero finds time to dip her or spin her away and conceal the arc of his thrown dagger. He picks her up and spins her around and when he sets her down it’s just long enough for her to stare in awe while he ducks and pulls her to his side out of a guard’s crashing halberd. Cicero’s eyes narrow and he fillets the guard’s throat with an ebony blade in one breath. He works the steps to and from the guard’s corpse into the routine of their dance and in seconds Kara is once again moving against him. It’s nothing like she expects and she can’t laugh or joke or smile but in the tiny crevice of her mind where logic prevails she makes a note to acknowledge the gesture later.

The two continue their dance throughout the hour. Even after the guards are dead, Cicero doesn’t stop. He has boundless energy and it keeps her body occupied so her mind can deal with the throes of a flashback that continues to wring her dry of emotions. The grief and terror that bleeds from a night long, _long_ ago is slowly snipped and bound and rebuked. More hours pass like that; her feet hurt into the early morning but it takes energy to care and she has none left.

When her mind ceases the flashback and frees her from its prison Cicero is the only of the two capable of holding them both up. She leans against him and listens to his humming while he sways them both to a song neither hear but know. His hands keep her upright with both wrapped around her and pressing her weight against him. She finds the tune he sings to be merry.

“Who is ‘he’?” The Keeper asks when she is finally calm again. “Cicero heard you say—Who is 'he?'”

The fact the jester doesn’t repeat the pained words of earlier is something she silently thanks him for. She sighs and pulls away from him enough to look the man in the eye. The action causes his form to tense. His hands don’t leave her and she’s okay with that.

“I don’t know if you’ll believe me.” The Listener whispers.

One hand slips up and Cicero slowly tilts her head so their eyes lock. “Did he hurt the sweet, kindly Listener?”

She has the strength not to look away. Not yet. Her body tenses and she breaths out slowly with her words, “You have no idea.”

It’s anger she catches in the dim light; the emotion flashes briefly over Cicero’s face and not even the comical and lively jester outfit can hide or mask the disgust that flicker into his eyes. His jaw clenches and he watches her for a slow, pained minute. “Can he be reached?”

“No.” She leans forward again and shuts her eyes. She feels the Keeper stiffen.

When his arms move to wrap around her again, they are strong and firm and sturdy. Cicero doesn’t say anything as the two resume the slow, soft swaying. The jester pauses. “Listener.”

“Listening,” She says.

“If the Night Mother allows it—Cicero will find him and roast him alive. Feed him to Gabriella’s creepy pet. Convince mistress Astrid to host a celebration, with music—and lights—and dancing into a darkness.” Cicero hums faintly. “A darkness lovely, so lovely, as you.”

For the first time since the two fled into the Ratway—Kara smiles and offers back, “I’d like that.”


	12. and this is real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meeting the thieves guild for the first (maybe second if she considers brynjolf an official meeting) time leads to the listener struggling to explain herself.

She gets lost in the tunnels below Riften. The damn corridors are repetitive, confusing, and she lacks the proper spells beyond Flames to offer much in the way of light. Constantly having to backtrack and wade through disgusting puddles or decaying remains of former Ratway residents leaves a sour impression on the Dragonborn’s mind. Cicero’s presence helps lighten the mood but between the poisoning and panic attack earlier she is not able to give him the responses she desires. Too much energy that isn’t there goes to trying to navigate their way out of the cesspool labyrinth.

_You’re sweet. A sweet, devoted Keeper. _The thought occasionally drifts into her head. When it does, she smiles. Sometimes Cicero catches the smile and dances as if he knows or understands it’s because of him.

Mainly the time they trudge through corridors is spent with her scowls or sighs or grabs at her hair because she can’t stand the stench, the rats, or the vile reminder of how some citizens are treated in Riften. It’s disgusting. She knows it should be a game but she’s not sure anymore and she wants to be sure before she jumps to a conclusion anymore.

How many hours or days or months or years pass is beyond her. Though it’s probably not years given her absence of wrinkles—save for the bags under her eyes—she feels like hours is a solid estimate. There’s no natural light to keep track of time. It drives her up a wall and upside down and inside out! She _needs _to know. She focuses on that, to keep her mind off the exhaustion on her shoulders. She thinks about how silly the concept of time is and how if she only bumped into Sheogorath instead of Sanguine she could be hosting Skyrim’s first debate tournament with the Daedric Prince instead of shuffling knee-deep through what she is _absolutely certain _is feces! Shit! Poor, diarrhea, urine, the whole works! Everything gross and disgusting exists in the damn Ratway! She hates it! She hates it!

She hates, she hates, she hates, she hates—

Thank Macintosh for Cicero. His optimism is her lifeline. When she gets frustrated and begins ripping hair out or shouts at the wall or cries or needs someone to hold her, he is there. He lets her use him as an anchor in the middle of rat-poop-dead-ville. She dances with him when the energy comes, she laughs at his jokes when he repeats them, and if she finds him staring at her she stares back in hopes he’ll notice the message she wants to convey. It’s sickening and lovely and a terrible, terrible time because Astrid’s an _ass _about Dark Brotherhood members _fraternizing _and if she wants to take the damn Keeper to _Bed, Bath, and Beyond_ she will. She’ll invite the whole fucking Brotherhood! Gabriella’s a beauty that’s caught her eye and Veezara she bought a damn _ring _for and maybe Festus is too old for her taste but she’ll let him babysit Babette so the two can play card games or some family-friendly board game while everyone else gets busy.

She doesn’t know when she slept last.

“What are we looking for?” The Listener groans and kicks a dead rat.

“Listener has asked ten times in five minutes,” Cicero replies and throws his hands up in a delightful shrug. “The exit! A way out! An escape!”

_I want an escapade. _The Listener huffs and trudges the current stink tunnel faster. _I want lots of bodies and warmth. Happy orgasmic sounds. I want to be desired and desire and indulge and take a load off for once in my life._

She doesn’t get to, not at that moment. She imagines herself grumbling and complaining under breath as little more than a disgusting mess of long hair, sewage, and rat dung making incoherent sounds. Her eyes narrow as her ears tune out the next thing Cicero says. She marches forward and yelps when the man pulls her backwards. She guffaws and whirls to eye him in anger. “Cicero!”

“Sh,” the jester smiles and holds a finger to her lip. “Cicero heard voices.”

She shuts up not because of the warning but because the damn finger has a gross stain and she doesn’t want to know where the hell it came from. It did not come from her blood! She rubs her forehead to be sure and confirms the ugly scratch hasn’t been cleaned or reopened. It needs to be cleaned now for sure. She sighs and gives up on the longstanding hate-avoidance of restoration spells. _Next time I find a yellow tome with weird magical stuff on it, I’ll read it once and then say I know it and then do it and it will be great and nothing bad will happen. Yeah. Sure. Sounds real fucking fascinating, Kara. _

“Come. Come, Listener!” Cicero calls from ahead.

A vivid flush burns her cheeks as her mind goes to a mental image that involves zero direction and a lot more fun. She comes in the less fun way and finds Cicero around the curve of the corridor where it opens up into one massive chamber. A dead brawler lies half-consumed by rats in one corner. Kara’s mind returns to _important Listener seriousness _as her tired brain manages to put two-and-two together of rats and the ice spikes embedding them: they died recently, it’s fresh.

The door on the opposite wall of the chamber makes her stop and gawk. Her hopes rise and adrenaline begins to pop into her veins. “The exit?”

Cicero is kneeling next to the door, one ear pressed tightly to it while he shushes her with a wave of his hand. He shuts his eyes. Maybe he’s concentrating; the Listener has trouble concentrating at that moment. After some kind of time passes—she doesn’t care as long as it’s an exit—Cicero nods for her to approach and she slinks up with the stench of a thousand Falmers rotting off her. It matches Cicero’s putrid aroma of rat guts and fecal matter.

The two stinkbugs slowly push the door open and peek into the equally-smelly chamber beyond; it is a great cistern with a pool of water taking up majority of the area. A small walkway goes around the side. Directly across the sewage ‘lake’ is a dock that spans a fourth of the body of water; beyond the dock lays a strange sight that is vaguely familiar but only in a way so utterly unappealing to the Listener she can’t bother to think too much about it. There’s a bar.

A number of golden-armored assholes called _Thalmor _stand at the bar questioning the guy behind it. A couple other ruffians that are _probably _not in cahoots with xenophobic and elitist elves sit or stand tense and watching nearby. One of the ruffians with blond side-burns and hefty armor catches sight of the two Brotherhood members but to the Listener’s unspoken relief, he says nothing.

“You’re in the wrong place to be asking those kinds of questions, pal.” The man behind the bar shows no fear in the face of really-yellow elves. The Listener commends him for it but _silently_; she wonders if the barkeeper’s long brown hair holds secrets that help him keep his balls when facing Thalmor. The man picks up a broom and starts sweeping behind the bar while he adds on to his statement, “You’d better clear out before someone gets hurt.”

The bumblebee elf guy huffs and leans over to the barkeeper. He hisses in a fancy-prissy-pancy-dandy voice that the Listener _loathes_. “No. Not yet. Your lack of cooperation has been noted. We’ll be back if we require further information. You won’t get a second chance.”

“The answer ain’t gonna be any different the next time. Arrogant elven bastard!” Broom man spits at the Thalmor.

For a moment the Listener’s body moves on its own and she silently retrieves daggers and prepares to throw. It would be so easy, after all, to strike when they are so distracted by great voice-acting and dialogue that is insulting and bad and not-good. But the Listener is really tired. She wants sleep. She won’t get it for a time further and she smells bad and everything irritates her right now! But she knows she shouldn’t assassinate bumblebee elves even if they suck ass; the Thalmor haven’t been given notice of her Dragonborn-ness yet and she gets the tired feeling that they will be very _not _tired and aggressive if she provokes them.

Thank Akatosh Cicero has a hand on her shoulder. It’s a lovely gesture. She likes him a lot. He probably could use a nap, too, and she wants to nap with him.

_Later. _The Listener frowns.

The scene doesn’t result in bloodshed. The tension leaves with the Thalmor entering a door somewhere she doesn’t pay attention to. She’s busy looking at the ass of an Imperial lady whose snow-white hair looks so temptingly soft that Cicero has to tighten his grip on her shoulder to stop her from trying to use it as a pillow. Cicero nudges her side and she snaps back to Listener sort-of-seriousness as the bar people chill out and notice them. Something like that. The Listener struggles to pay close attention as she follows Cicero’s blessed behind along the walkway. The two halt at side-burns man stepping forward and raising a hand at them.

“You losers look like you crawled out of Black Marsh.” Side-burns’ eyes bounce from one to the other.

The Listener’s eyes try to do the same, but they only stay on Side-burns because the rest of the bar populace hangs back. She tries to get the attention of white-haired wonder woman, but the beautiful lady refuses to acknowledge her. 

“We killed people.” She says aloud.

Side-burns growls. “Who the _hell_ are you?”

“Lemme guess.” A chair is pushed back from one bar table and a man with stubble for hair and beard stands. His tan skin ripples with muscles as he walks over. His armor looks shiny and clear in comparison and she envies that. “The Dark Brotherhood sent it’s regards. Am I right?”

“Cicero does not like this man.” The jester at her side narrows his eyes.

“Is this a trick question?” The Listener’s eyes grow big and wide as she stares Stubble Hair down. “Yes. Yes? Is ‘yes’ right? I think yes is right—!”

Lyin' to my face isn't gonna win you any favors with me, I can promise you that. Delvin Mallory. You ain’t shakin’ my hand when you look like that kinda shit,” Stubble Hair Delvin Mallory growls the last sentence. “It’s in ya armor. Not even sewage covers the stench of _death_. You got nerve comin’ here like that. Brynjolf! You send for these two?” Delvin shouts over his shoulder.

The Listener’s face lights up. She bounces on her heels at the sight of a handsome, dashing, _daring _ginger-haired Nord in rich black armor. Brynjolf looks delicious in a way that would either lead to a good time or cause her to get banned from Riften for public indecency.

“Well, well… Color me impressed, lass! I was certain I’d never see you again.” Brynjolf grins ear-to-ear. His face pales when the scent wafts into his nostril of everything the Listener and Keeper have dealt with in Divines-knows-how-long. “Not impressive, that stench—!”

“Yeah.” The Listener mumbles.

She feels insulted when the Thieves Guild members and bar patrons begin pinching their noses in disgust. She does it too—over her mask—just to ensure she isn’t left out of any inside jokes going on. Part of her suspects her newfound bar friends aren’t good with jokes. 

“Can you do something for sleep? Stench and sleep.” The Listener blinks slowly.

“Normally—We’d say yes, lass, but—” Brynjolf grimaces. “Ain’t no way Mercer’s letting you in the guild cistern like that.”

“Fuck him!” The Listener groans aloud.

“He won’t let you back in _here _if you keep shouting like that, lass.” Brynjolf warns. “We’re dealing with enough here right now. You two see those elves?” At the nods of both Cicero and the Listener, Brynjolf continues, “They’re looking for one of the last-paying clients we got. Nasty stuff. Doubt they’ll stop coming here till they drag him out kickin’ and screaming.”

“Fuck them too,” It’s said for good measure, but it elicits a smile nonetheless from Brynjolf. The Listener grumbles under breath incoherently about elves and fucking them. “—And I hate them and their smug, pompous faces. And their voices. The voice-acting! I love it! But I hate them. I really hate them. Pompous, smug, elven elf faces!”

Cicero laughs jovially at that. She respects him for his dedication to not let her words fall on ears that are not listening. She is _the _Listener but she needs to be _Listen_ed too, to!

“What’s this name of client, by the way. Can I have it?” The Listener inquires. She struggles to maintain a sense of lucidity. Perhaps the poison from earlier was not so easily negated in her system despite what she initially thought; a potion can only do so much, after all. “Please.”

“The Dark Brotherhood’s fallen low.” Delvin Stubble Head Mallory whistles sharply and walks back to a chair that the Listener doubts is _really _his.

“It’s Esbern. I remember his name. He mentioned it on accident when he first came in,” the barkeeper speaks from behind the counter of his fine establishment. The man looks up and the Listener relaxes at the fact he is a man who does not need to pinch his nose for the aroma. He accepts her as she is. She makes an effort to listen when the guy continues. “Old gentleman. Paid up front, paid extra, paid until the day was blue and the sun grey… Can’t say I know why Thalmor looking for him, but—”

“You can’t give out names of _our clients_, Vexel!” The white-haired goddess _shrieks _from the side. She storms up to the counter. “How do we know they’re not with them?”

“Since when do the Brotherhood give two shits about the Dominion in a partnership? Nah. High elves too proud for it to happen. They’re safe, little Vex.” Delvin’s voice silences Vex. “Safe ‘nough to not be with Thalmor.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me get Mercer out here to judge this. That’s petty.” Delvin huffs.

The atmosphere in the cistern begins to settle. The Listener, for the time being, has doffed her Listener-seriousness and embraced the heroism of the Dragonborn. She pauses and cranes what little functioning bits of her brain she has for memories of the name spoken. _Esbern. Esbern. Esbern. Esbern? I heard it. And it’s… What’s it from? Is it? No. Think. I can do this. I’m capable…_

A gear clicks in her head and Kara swallows. Her throat is dry. She looks around and bolts for the bar. Side-burn tries to grab her but it’s the white-haired lady of love who steps in with a dagger poised. Kara can’t help pleading with her, _“I need to know everything about Esbern!” _

She hears Cicero say something behind her, maybe calling her back and away from the terrifying face of a pissed off Imperial, but she ignores him. Her tired eyes stare at Vex until the latter grimaces at her smell and backs off. “Get out of here.”

“You don’t—Gods, Damnit, none of you understand, do you?” Kara climbs to her feet. She rakes hands through her hair and struggles not to cry at the level of disarray she is in currently. She looks around before her eyes land on Cicero and she hisses at him, “Do you trust your Listener?”

“What—”

“A title, Brynjolf.” Delvin explains in the background. “A very, very honored rank. Can’t say I under—”

“Shut the fuck up! By Oblivion, do you ever stop being a prick for two whole seconds!?” Kara’s dragon roars inside her and she stomps up to Delvin Mallory with zero concern for the offensive stances the entire bar—save Cicero—takes. She grabs his collar and forces him to his feet. “You don’t understand this because you are insufferable and rude and _only useful in the damn quest to value a useless amulet! _And that doesn’t matter anyways _because most of them die!_ And I get to deal with the fucking aftermath of it all so _please _do this _dov_ a favor and answer my questions before I lose my _temper._”

Though she feels as if she’s on fire and her fangs are bared there are no scales on her skin or screams of terror in the area. Delvin Mallory whistles sharply and falls back into his seat when Kara releases him.

“Dov.” Is the first word he says. Vex advances on Kara and Kara sees Cicero reach for his ebony blades but Delvin and Kara alike, as if synchronized, shout back commands for their comrades to stop.

Delvin’s eyes narrow. “You’re the Dragonborn. ‘course you are…”

“I need to find Esbern. I need to get out of this shithole. _Please _help me so we can go on our merry way and pretend life isn’t a walk through Daedra and Oblivion.” Kara clenches her teeth. “I—The Thalmor will _kill him_. Flay him limb-from-limb and cull all information he has on who he is and where he comes from and they will do it with vigor.”

The barkeeper walks over to the two. He sets a platter with a bottle of mead and a glass on Delvin’s table. Delvin reaches for it but Kara’s hand snatches it first and she uncorks it with her teeth. The Dragonborn takes a long swig while holding eye contact with the former Brotherhood member. When she’s done, she holds the bottle out to him and he takes it without hesitation.

“We could kill you where you stand. Don’t got to be Brotherhood to know how,” Delvin warns. “You play a dangerous game.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Kara whispers.

“The Ratway Vaults. The farthest part of them is called the Ratway Warrens. That's where he should be. You go through the door, you find Esbern, deal with the Thalmor, n’ the three of you skip town—_never_ showing your face in this cistern again. I’ll give ya one shot,” Delvin pushes his seat back and stands. He leans over to the woman and drops his voice to a whisper. “But if ya fuck it up—we’ll be waiting. We won’t meet again on pleasant terms.”

The Dragonborn barely holds herself back as the urge to throw arms around him and squeeze the thin hair out of Delvin’s hair is nigh-overwhelming. She shudders and exhales. The Dragonborn nods and gestures for Cicero to follow her as she walks past the group, beyond a strange cupboard, and to a door at the end of a short corridor. It takes a shove, but she and Cicero slip out beyond it. It’s not until the two of them are lost wandering corridors and navigating sewage again that either one of them speaks. It is Cicero who is the first to crack; his voice is unusually cautious as he trudges faster to walk alongstride Kara.

“Kind, strange Listener is Dragonborn.” The man states. “Cicero did not know.”

“There wasn’t a point to sharing.” She bites her lip and averts her gaze. She’s weary but the adrenaline of facing off the Thieves Guild members forces her to remain alert and aware. “What would it change, Cicero? Change what I can or can’t do? Change my ability to kill or my habit of messing up? Would it spirit away my past and let me heal? It—All it means is I have the soul of a _dov_, a dragon. It’s easily pissed off and it makes me rash and impulsive in this game.”

“What did Listener mean by that? Game.” The jester peers at her for a response.

She stops walking and sighs. “Cicero—_Keeper _Cicero—Remember what I said about how some things you just wouldn’t be able to believe, even if I explained? Remember what I told you about the man who can’t be reached?”

She’s comforted by the fact he still gets angry at the mention of her husband. It’s good to know someone values her.

Kara continues walking forward. “There’s a lot of weird things going on with me, Cicero. Things that can’t be possible. And I can’t… understand it. Believe it. I don’t _know _what’s happening with me. I don’t know what’s real. I—I keep going back and forth, you know? Believing this world is my real one moment and the next… thinking this is really just something that is fake. Artificial. That everything is made-up and at one point I’ll get ripped out of this place by _that man_ and everything I become attached to here—”

She’s stopped by Cicero taking her wrist and gently pulling her back. It’s almost instinctual to spin but she resists and simply finds herself peering at him. His jester motley has seen better days. Many, many better days. She nearly reaches to straighten his hat but falls quiet when the Keeper hesitantly moves forward. She thinks he might kiss her when he stops but an inch away, breath fanning her face, and eyes intent on delving into the fine details of her own gaze. It’s mystifying. She can’t move or talk or react beyond watching and observing the merry jester.

“You are the Listener.” Cicero tells her. “You are real. And _this_\--”

He takes a breath. She feels any argument or thought or conflict or _anything _fade away in seconds as his lips press against hers. Her mind goes blank and for a moment she’s too afraid to do anything; she’s too afraid to touch or taste or feel in _terror_ that the man of her marriage will end the happiness she desires so desperately.

“—Is real.” The man whispers against her lips.

Then he pulls back and offers her a grin before trudging on. Her entire face remains cherry-red and she stares at his back until he calls for her to join him in dancing through the sewage. She touches a finger to her lips and heat blossoms in her stomach. Kara’s eyes light up and she stumbles after him, ignoring all of aches of her bones and exhaustion of her mind. Perhaps she will get to call him her Keeper in this playthrough after all.


	13. because i want you to live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dark brotherhood finds esbern but the thalmor have found him first. she gets the gang out of riften but not on easy terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not actual rape but there's some mention of rape at the very end discussing molag bal

There’s a problem and it extends beyond the pair attempting to sneak up on the armored High Elves of Summerset Isle. The problem involves a train of thought a _Listener _of the pair possesses and the fact she can’t call upon the one individual who might have the answer. It’s no surprise she begins thinking about the Daedric Prince of Debauchery; he’s as rude as her and cockier, too, but his expressed support for her not messing the state of _Skyrim _up to a corrupted mess of a game file is imperative. Sanguine may be the only one she sort-of trusts to help her confirm or deny theories, run a few tests, or offer input and advice on navigating the storylines that have become rapidly muddled and intertwined. The arrival of Thalmor in Riften several quests too early is a bad sign for the Blades storyline and part of the Listener feels as if she may be too late to stop it from spiraling into chaos.

But she has to try. The Dread Father does not desire this form of chaos, she reckons, as it actually has potential to threaten the save file of her _Skyrim _game. If Sithis plays games or has a semblance of understanding for what she thinks is her original reality, then he’ll understand why she has to seek out the Lord of Indulgences. That is the problem: Kara finds that in spite of her attempts over the past couple days to summon Dremora, she is unable to force Sanguine to appear. She doesn’t know how she did it at the Throat of the World, or how to trigger Sam Guevenne in inns again, and the fact she lacks the knowledge she desperately needs irritates her.

The lack of sleep and sewage clinging to her body doesn’t help, either.

She’s downed any remaining healing potions she possesses in hopes the foul brews can keep her mind intact long enough to find Esbern and hightail it out of the city of Thieves. It helps with the bodily exhaustion, but her brain continues to feel weary. She and Cicero both show signs of struggling to keep up as they explore deeper into the Ratway. Both individuals fight off the growing need to _sleep_, bad moods, and the unspoken tension that’s started growing as result of the Keeper’s bold action. 

If there was a way to save it and repeat it over and over, in an environment that’s clean and sterile and full of sheets, blankets, and pillows, she would. She thinks back to it constantly, to the feeling of him against her and how tender he was. She reflects on the mirth in his eyes and the tone of his words when he declared that all of _this_—of him, of her, of them—was real. Kara’s face turns red whenever she catches Cicero peering at her from the side; the last thing she can do in a sewage tunnel is jump the man and by this point it’s a fight to make sure she doesn’t try. The threat of Thalmor are one of the few things keeping her in line and ensuring she keeps hands to herself. That and the never-ending stream of anxiety that she will inevitably find a way to mess things up and make the jester hate her.

She’s not given too much time to nurture her thoughts because at one point the corridors cut off into levels of tunnels that open into a central rectangular chamber. Stairs can be spotted at the ends of each level and she spots the gleam of gold emerge from one end. Seven Thalmor Justicar’s stride forward with a badly beaten man struggling weakly against a set of cuffs snapped on his arms. It’s uncomfortable to look at; Esbern is helpless as a mage with his hands locked behind him in what she only assumes is anti-magic chains to ensure his _cooperation _with the Thalmor _re-education_.

Both assassins are lucky they smell like the environment. Kara recognizes how out-of-place the Thalmor are in the stench and sludge; she doubts any of them can make two-and-two out of the presence of yet more putrid stenches. She silently thanks her gross armor for the aid in stealth as she casts Muffle on herself. She throws it unto Cicero after and he beams in thanks.

Without a bow and arrows to help her—where it went is beyond her, probably lost in the sewage of the Ratway somewhere if she even remembered to bring it when Cicero first dragged her from the guards—the Dragonborn opts to wait until the Thalmor are headed for the stairs at the end of the platform directly below hers. She directs Cicero to stand on one side of the stairwell while she waits opposite him. In the shadows they are unseen, skilled assassins, and both possess the eloquence and awareness of such. When the Thalmor’s boots sound and they spring into view, the two followers of Sithis strike.

Magic rings out loudly as the Thalmor in the back cast defensive wards over their robes and prepare conjuration spells. The two elves in the front drop dead from ebony and Daedric blades before things become a mess of sparks, flames, and conjurings between opposing spellcasters. Despite the advantage of surprise Kara finds herself being pressed back as she slowly drains her inner pools of magicka alternating between spells of Fury and wards of her own. She attempts to snipe the Thalmor in the back with spikes of ice but a quick blast of Flames to her face leaves her reeling back in pain. Burnt sewage hangs in the air and she chokes and heaves on the aroma, partially in disbelief at how utterly _atrocious _a smell must be to be worse than what was already there.

She sees Cicero dancing between shadows and side-stepping atronachs to cut them down at the neck. It doesn’t seem like the remaining five Thalmor heed him attention. No, their focus is on her and she shouts a blast of _fus ro _at them to keep it that way. Elven yells join the conversation and Kara growls when one particular Thalmor impales her arm with a glass sword. The weapon breaks off and her arm drops uselessly to her side but she headbutts the high elf and shoves him off the platform unto the next level below. An unfortunate crack signals his sendoff into the Void and she shouts Sithis’ name in delight, praying the Dread Father is pleased by her work.

The three remaining Thalmor look torn between continuing to fight and backing off to regroup. It’s at that point she stops. _One's missing--_ and she whirls around to find a Thalmor charge her with sparks in one hand and glass dagger in the other. The dagger hurts less, Kara decides, and she shoves her body at it while her good hand forces a ward up to deflect the sparks harmlessly away. She shouts a _fus _to knock the mage off-balance and curses as she feels the glass dagger’s blade dig into her gut. She shoves her entire body at him and prays the momentum combined with her body weight is enough to knock him down. A rain of ice spikes impale his throat when she’s successful. Her breathing grows heavy as her magicka grows low and she looks behind her to find Cicero dancing a beautiful, deadly dance with one of the Thalmor mages. He looks amused.

_Two, three… Four. His is five—the other two? Where are they? _And her eyes grow wide as she tries to shout. The _fus _comes too late to knock the high elf from Cicero as the golden warrior strikes forward while the assassin’s back is turned. Kara’s eyes gloss over and she stiffens in horror at Cicero’s crumpled body and bloody motley.

_This is real, _she hears his voice in her head.

_This is real. _Kara relives that moment again and again and again.

_This is real. _She can still picture the glee in his eyes, the skip to his steps after.

“Sanguine!" Kara _screams_ the Daedra’s name. She throws her remaining magicka into the Conjure Dremora spells and prays the Prince of Indulgence and Desires can feel her desperation and _need_ for his help. She doesn’t care that the Thalmor mages have turned to her with fire in their palms and hate in their eyes. Kara can’t care. She screams the name of the Daedra over and over until her lungs are hoarse and her body shakes and shudders in a pool of her own blood. The purple sphere balloons out into a massive, magical pod of Myriad magic.

His initial look is that of pleasure. “And here I thought good ol’ Sanguine wasn’t miss—”

Kara screeches his name and points. She doesn’t care about his remarks or what he may or may not hold against her. He can take her damn dragon soul for all she cares and stuff it down the Daedric equivalent of a garbage disposal. The Dragonborn screams and claws through her own blood to one of the two remaining Thalmor, while the Daedric Prince swiftly cuts down the other in a single swipe. Esbern’s swollen, bruised eyes stare in horror at the entity before him; if Kara had any concern left for the elderly Blades’ well-being she’d have offered calming words or begun to explain. She doesn’t.

She doesn’t have the energy or blood to care. She’s shaking when she unlocks Esbern’s cuffs. Though he initially tries to press healing hands at her wounds she growls at him and escorts him to Cicero’s bloody side. The Bend Will shout lingers on her lips and she knows instantly Sanguine is aware of how desperate she is; she will burn villages and raze kingdoms to the ground in draconic devastation if someone does not help the damn jester. As Esbern’s calloused hands press healing magic into Cicero’s body, the Dragonborn—Listener—_Kara_—finally has a moment to breathe. She doesn’t relax but she applies pressure to the stab wounds in her gut and sobs when the pain doesn’t lessen. She sobs at more than that, too, but the pain is especially vicious and she’s nothing but a shuddering mess as its thrall.

Nearby—Sanguine stands idle, watching the scene,

“Kara.” The Daedric Prince causes Esbern to flinch when he walks past the elderly man to the weeping Dragonborn. Sanguine’s armor clinks and rattles as he squats near her and peers at her form intently. “You’re injured.”

_“Fuck off.”_ The Dragonborn speaks as both _dov _and mortal. She growls and hisses in pain and at pain and at Sanguine.

The Lord of Debauchery doesn’t flinch. His eyes narrow. He’s not amused. “Kara, you need healing.”

“You know I know jack about it! About that goddamn school! About goddamn restoration! You fucking prick,” Kara shouts at him. Her entire body is a mess of soot, sewage, and blood. She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t die of sepsis from her injuries. “You’ve left me alone in this _godawful realm_ with _fuck all _going on! And I’ve had to deal with it by my lonesome! None of those _useless _Dremoras of yours helped!”

The Daedric Lord is quiet and contemplative.

His lack of response or acknowledgement makes Kara _seethe_. She snaps at him as if her mandibles are jaws of sharp teeth and growls and curses him to Oblivion and back. Sanguine waves her off like she’s a gnat buzzing around and mustering nonsense.

“You’re going to die if you aren’t healed.” Sanguine tells her curtly.

Esbern gives the two a look. “Should I—”

_“No.” _Kara spits. Her eyes lock unto Sanguine. “I’ll wait.”

“You’ll die.” The Daedric Prince straightens upright. Not even his tall, towering figure in enchanted Daedric armor can intimidate the Dragonborn in her rage.

“Then I die.” Kara says.

“You damn consumers and your short sightedness,” It’s unusual to hear Sanguine genuinely _pissed _but the Daedric Prince’s eyes glow in warning at the change of emotions in his usually amicable and drunk manifestation. “Your soul is _far more valuable _than his!”

“I don’t care! I really, really don’t, Sanguine!” The Dragonborn curses in dragon speech. She’s beginning to struggle in her breathing and the color is gone from her face. “I—I don’t! I don’t give a damn! I’ve had it! I’m done! I’m sick of it! I don’t want _this _anymore! Not if everything keeps fucking up!” Her shouts strain and crack and the Daedric Prince twitches as Kara’s pain wells up in the form of her shaking, dying form’s anger.

The Dragonborn stops the pressure on her wounds. She grits her teeth and curses aloud. “I’m not dying after him. I won’t die after him—Leave him alone—He’s been—He means something to me—”

“More than yourself?” Sanguine snaps.

“I don’t expect a Daedra to understand!” Kara screeches. “Least of all the Prince of Debauchery and Selfish—” Her hand goes to her mouth and she coughs and chokes. Her chest heaves and she shakes and claws at her own skin for air. 

“You’re dying and all you do is rant and rave? About what?” Sanguine grits his teeth. _“I abandoned you? _Guess you’re right, princess! We’re all Daedra where I come from _and we don’t care. _We don’t need to! We got places to go, souls to savor! And you just fill another one of those soul slots on our wheel of fortune like every other pitifully weak mortal out there. I wasted so much time on you! Hounding away the vultures of other Princes!”

Kara doesn’t reply beyond a faint gurgle.

Sanguine takes her wrist and pulls her to her feet. She’s too weak to stand and collapses against his breastplate. The Daedric Prince looks at the bloody, shit-stained mess he holds and he growls in displeasure. “But y’know, Kara, no matter how pissed off you are at me, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _need _to matter. ‘Cause I know _every _desire crawling in that skin of yours. And you know what you desire most of all? In spite of your incessant yapping about this Sithis-spawn’s body? You want to _live_.”

His hands glow faintly in deep crimson red. Kara’s body convulses under his touch and she begins to twist and claw at the Daedra magic that pours from his fingertips. It arcs across her body and plunges into her wounds. The Dragonborn’s scream grows infinite in volume as she begins to thrash. It’s a horrible, searing pain that pummels her flesh and contorts what should be _her _tissue into something that is _her _but not entirely of this realm. She feels the flesh bend under the touch of a different being’s blood. She finds herself struggling to inhale but when Sanguine snaps his fingers air begins to rush into her lungs. She takes a deep breathe.

Her eyes trail down to places where her armor was cut into by swords and daggers and ice. Splotches of ebony black Dremora hide stare back at her. She’s dropped to the ground without pause and Sanguine growls. “You want to live, Kara.”

“What did you _do_ to me?” The Dragonborn’s face pales and she turns away to retch at the sight of her healed flesh.

The Daedric Prince’s eyes narrow. “What was needed.”

“I’m not a fool, Sanguine!” Kara looks over her shoulder and shouts. _“I read the lore of Malkus Vile and Barnabas! I know secrets of the Daedra! _You can’t bullshit me all the time! You used your magic,” It’s a dangerous thought and she can’t explain why. She manages to stand and her fists clench tightly. _“You _used your power to _regenerate my flesh_! My blood! My _life_!”

“You wouldn’t let the wrinkled buffoon heal you,” Sanguine says. “So I did.”

“—And by _what right _was that!? Who let you make that decision!? I’d have rather died than wound up like _this_,” Kara spits at the ground and gestures to the mottled patches of flesh. “Why did you do this?!”

_“Because I want you to live.” _The Daedric Prince hisses. Sanguine’s glare stays on Kara and she makes no effort to look away despite feeling the familiar tug of his magical presence begin to spark strange thoughts in her head.

But she doesn’t leer at him anymore. She merely stares. She picks up Cicero’s daggers along with her own and straps them to her shins and arms. She feels Sanguine watching her every move. She loots the Thalmor for spell tomes, rare ingredients, and magical scrolls before she finally bothers to address the Daedric Prince again. When she talks her voice is low and testy but it doesn’t harbor the rage that flew around minutes ago. She simply asks, “Can you carry Cicero?”

Sanguine doesn’t audibly respond but picks up the injured mortal. Esbern’s restoration magic is weak but Kara is visibly relieved to see Cicero’s injuries have ceased bleeding. She looks over Esbern’s attempts to wrap up the jester’s wounds and decides it’ll have to do for now. She gestures for all of them to follow as she turns and begins the trek out of the Warrens of Ratway Vaults. Sanguine does not disappear despite Kara silently counting the seconds of the Conjure Dremora spell's usual duration.

She finds it easier to reach the Ragged Flagon with Sanguine pointing out the way turn-by-turn. His directions and knowledge of nearly everything Skyrim-related is useful, but she keeps that opinion to herself. When she arrives in the cistern and stops at the bar, all eyes in the room turn to her: first to Kara, and then to the Daedric Prince’s imposing figure flanking her. Even Delvin Mallory and Vex fall silent and Vekel wipes sweat from his brow. Kara gives them all a look before she marches to Brynjolf and asks. “The fastest exit out of here?”

The Nord eyes her with wide eyes. “Kara—”

“Please.” She begs him. Her teeth grit impatiently. _“Brynjolf.”_

“Okay, lass. I’ll show you our Guild’s personal exit and entrance,” the thief nods at her and Esbern—and Sanguine—to follow him as he reveals a hidden door in the unusual wardrobe she saw earlier. It leads to a ladder, the ladder leads to the Thieves Guild primary cistern, and Brynjolf shushes any member of the guild who attempts to speak up. He goes so far to cut off his guild leader, Mercer Frey, and snaps at him, “She’s got a _Daedric Prince _with her. We don’t have the means to deal with that, Mercer, and you know it.”

“Just get them out.” Mercer growls.

Kara pretends she didn’t hear the conversation as Brynjolf directs her to a well-used ladder. It leads to a mausoleum-like structure that has a chain mechanism she pulls to unlock a staircase in and out of the hidden chamber, opening into a Riften graveyard. Kara gives her thanks to Brynjolf and the party departs. She makes sure to have Esbern and herself bathe, then she takes it on herself to wash Cicero free of the disgusting sludge of the Ratways. Sanguine doesn’t need a bath; his magic compels grime off his form and Kara feels a sting of envy. She doubles back to pick up Velvet for herself and then haggles the price of a wagon down from grotesquely overpriced to reasonable.

Velvet whines at being hitched to a cart initially but Kara shushes her and loads Cicero’s unconscious form into the wagon bed. Esbern offers to take the reins and Kara graciously thanks him. He takes the cart unto the roads leading directly west of Riften; it leads to a rare mountain pass trail that is often kept by bandits opposed to used by travelers, but Kara doesn’t care. Her dragon and her allegiance to Sithis and the Night Mother beg for blood. Any fool—besides that of Hearts—who crosses paths with the Listener will find themselves a quick and gruesome death.

Cicero remains unconscious for the first day of travel. Kara sits next to him in the wagon bed. She keeps his head on her lap. Though she expects Sanguine to vanish back to his plane of Oblivion, or to walk as opposed to be by _her_, she’s genuinely surprised to find he sits in the wagon bed with her. In the late afternoon of the first day of travel Kara busies herself with tending to Cicero and ruffling his hair. It’s rare to see the bouncing, thick locks, but she amuses herself in running fingers through them and imagining what Cicero would say or the sounds he might make if the two had a moment of privacy.

“You changed since we parted ways.” Sanguine observes during the same afternoon hours. His voice is low and he wears the black-red robes of Sam Guevenne once more.

Kara’s grateful Esbern refrains from commenting on Sanguine’s presence; she can’t think of any reasonable explanation or excuse for how it could happen. Nor a reasonable excuse for why she can summon a Daedric Prince in the first place.

The Dragonborn continues to ruffle Cicero’s hair; his jester’s cap remains safely stored in a satchel at her waist. “I did. When did you notice?”

“When you called my name,” it’s not an innuendo or lewd remark for once. Sanguine states it as it is. “I know every indulgence and desire in that head of yours, Kara. But I did not anticipate the need you projected in that moment. It was… desperate. Inhumanely necessary. A desire like none a mortal has offered me before.”

“I was desperate.” She acknowledges quietly. She bows her head and sighs. “You called me a consumer before. But these past months I’ve felt less like an outsider and more like… this is it. This could be my life. And it’s horrified me to no end that I could dare to think that when I have a life beyond this. Beyond _Skyrim_.” Kara grits her teeth.

“How much do I know of you, Kara?” The Daedric Prince rifles through a pack containing Cicero’s extra daggers. He pulls a wine bottle out but no glasses. “How much of your story?”

“I’m trapped in an abusive marriage. There’s not a lot more to it than that.” Kara replies. She averts her gaze. “I never thought myself interesting.”

“Well I’m _trying _to give you a chance to speak up for once and share some information!” Sanguine’s voice begins to reek of frustration again. He uncorks his wine bottle and drinks leisurely.

The Dragonborn sighs. “What do you want to know?

_“What you want to tell me.” _Sanguine huffs. “The things you think about, Kara. Your hopes, dreams, _desires_. All those indulgences—but shared willingly. Not taken. Not exposed. You get real pissy if I bring shit up out of the blue.”

“For good reason.” Kara’s brows furrow. “Give me a second.”

She looks down at Cicero. Sweet, lovely Cicero. Cicero who is real and devoted and has tendencies to stab, stab, stab but never stab _her _opposed to stabbing _enemies _and individuals who defile their unholy matron. Beautiful, handsome Cicero and his eyes that speak tales only he knows or understands. Strong, reliable Cicero who can wrap his arms around her and hold her when everything falls apart. Cicero is many things but he gets one thing wrong; she is his fool of Hearts and she is hopelessly, desperately enamored with the man beyond an appreciation for his character in the video game.

It’s a strange realization to come to in a cart with a Blades elder driving and a Daedric Prince to her side. Kara smiles faintly and glances at Sanguine. “Did you know I’m polyamorous? Bisexual?”

“Had a feeling,” the Daedric Prince shrugs. “You get lots of fantasies about—”

“Shush,” the Dragonborn exhales sharply. “I know the fantasies I have and they are not for public use. I’m still… Ugh. Let me talk more about myself, why not—Sanguine, do you have the _slightest _clue how my marriage has affected me?”

“You get weird if I ask.”

“Rightfully so.” Kara snorts. “My marriage is a shitshow on rails. Puppy-dog love, grooming, quick marriage and isolation, the whole shebang. That’s me. And it escalated. And it’s still me. And you know what really sucks? I feel like I’ve missed out on so many experiences I would have enjoyed. All because of my shitshow husband, because of all the things he’s done and did and put me through. Because of the control he still has over me.” She runs a hand through her hair. It’s come undone and she means to put it up, but she needs to even the layers and a barber is not easy to find in Skyrim. The long, silky hair flops freely over her shoulders. It catches some of the light and she huffs at it in irritation. “Even right now I am thinking things like—How do I make myself less noticeable? Am I ‘too much’ right now? Would he be mad if he saw me like this? It’s a fucking problem—”

A hand reaches over and she stops talking. Sanguine’s hand has no gauntlet but the rich black skin of his Daedra species gently goes through her hair. She’s left staring and in shock at the unusually tender action.

“Are you—”

“Thinking.” Sanguine says.

Kara doesn’t inquire further but looks to the side. “About what?”

“You.” It’s matter-of-factly spoken.

“Why?” She begs the question.

“Guess we have time to talk now, don’t we?” Sanguine pauses. He begins to grin. “I didn’t _really _elaborate on the hell I’ve been past couple months. Oblivion this, Oblivion plane that, you’d be confused if I up and started talking in the language of Daedra about what’s gone down. You notice anything unusual with weird cultists or Daedra appearing outta thin air to talk to you?”

“—No—”

“Good! That’s good. Means I’ve been successful.” He grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. For a moment the fabric moves enough for Kara to catch sight of a sanguine-red scar.

Her eyes widen. “Wait. Sanguine—”

“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t hurt now. Was a bitch to beat that stag into the ground.” The Daedric Prince chuckles like it isn’t a big ordeal.

Kara practically leaps on him. She drags him to her seat and shoves him forward enough to pull his robes back and peer through the slit of the collar. Curses drop from her lips as she grimaces at the dozens of scars marking the otherwise picture-perfect black skin and ribbon-red marks. “How many?”

“A lot.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” She releases him. “Why are you fighting so many Princes?”

“Got to keep them off _Kara _once way or another,” Sanguine’s lip quirk up in a smirk. The sound of Kara’s name rolling off his tongue in _such _fashion distracts her. “You’re mortal _and_ a consumer. You don’t see half the mayhem that goes down whenever one of your kind pops up. They want to stake their claim on your soul. A couple are pissed I staked out a spot for _yours truly _first. Think it’s unfair to get a head-start. Piss poor them.”

Kara covers her cheeks with her hands. She swallows. “It’s weird to think you did something nice out of anything but ulterior motives and long-term rewards.”

“Guilty,” Sanguine’s grin turns wicked. “I’m hoping you wind up with me after you die. We’ll be able to fuck like rabbits sunrise to sunset. Every _single _day. Not to mention the booze and parties—I got a number of great bards in my plane of Oblivion.”

“And there it is.” The attraction withers up and dies. She groans.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” the Daedric Prince goes on about the prospect anyways. “I can be gentle.”

“I’m sure you are—” Kara’s eyes widen as she’s pulled into his lap. She looks up to find Sanguine’s cheeky grin and vivid ruby eyes staring at her. She gawks at how close he is and then at how close he becomes as a hand goes to her cheek and tilts her head to his. His thumb gently rubs her cheek and he hums with satisfaction at the noticeable blush on her face.

“I can be _very _gentle,” He says softly. “for souls I like. And you are _dangerously_ likeable, Kara. The other Princes want you all for themselves. But I’m a little more open-minded than they are. I don’t mind _sharing_—”

The Dragonborn scowls at him. “Be serious, Sanguine.”

“I am.” His eyes are glossy and deep, deep red. She finds herself drawn closer to the Daedric Prince’s until her lips press against his.

She can’t _stand _a lot about him, but she can’t deny the pull she feels. It reminds her of a magnetic attraction, like the two are opposites attracting the other at a vicious and alarming rate. Kara finds herself initiating deeper and deeper kisses as Sanguine smiles against her and whispers, “Do you want me to be gentle with you, Kara? Do you want me to play rough? I can do a lot of things with my tongue—” He moves his lips to her neck, pressing each kiss to her skin with a growing vigor. “That’s the _other_ reason I can’t stay around you all the time. You’re irresistible. The things I want to make you do, the sounds you'd make—”

Thank _God _Esbern’s singing a tune to pass the time; she hopes it’s a sign he’s oblivious to the mess in the cart at that moment, but she doesn’t possess high hopes.

_“No_,” Kara’s self-restraint wins over her draconic spirit’s needy roars. “Not here, not now—Gods damnit, you and you bloody Daedric eye magic—” She puts a hand to his chest plate and pushes him away. He doesn’t stop her when she wriggles out of his lap and back to Cicero’s side. “We are dropping Esbern at Riverwood. I’m taking Cicero to Falkreath. And you will _not _do the damn eye thing again on this trip. Am I clear?”

“There’s Dremora blood in you yet,” Sanguine says. He grabs an alto bottle from Cicero’s bag—one that definitely wasn’t present prior—and uncorks it. It’s swallowed down in minutes. For a blessed short while there’s nothing but the sound of alcohol consumption and Velvet’s trotting before the Daedric Prince continues. “It’s not easy to pull away from the eyes of a Daedric Prince. Each of us got our own quirk. A little indulgence, if you will.”

“Let’s say that right now I am unbelievably _tired _and _pissy _and _not in the mood _and—My Divines, I don’t need to justify this to you. What am I doing?” Kara cradles her head in her hands. “We aren’t in a relationship. If I tell you to _fuck off_ then you will. You’re a lot of things, Sanguine, but you aren’t the Daedric Prince that runs around raping ladies and turning them into vampires of Coldharbour. You aren’t Molag Bal.” Her eyes darken at the thought of encountering the Daedric Prince of Domination. “If a mortal doesn’t want you—you won’t do it. And right now—Regardless of any desires I have, temptations offered—I am telling you no. And—And—I’m justifying again, aren’t I?”

“Yep. Heard your ‘no’ loud and clear.” His next swallow of wine is long.

The silence that follows is blissful. Though he doesn’t leave, the Dragonborn can tell that Sanguine is _thinking_. About what is beyond her but she finds it best not to pry or risk catching his gaze again. When the afternoon turns to night, she’s surprised at Sanguine’s offer to keep watch so she and Esbern can rest at their little make-shift camp. Kara doesn’t think twice; she climbs into a bedroll by the fire and is out before she can think about anything. That night she has a waking nightmare; the man she calls her husband comes home and he is anything but pleased with her.


	14. even if it is not me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the listener finds herself at a crossroads: astrid's contract and the night mother's order to seek out a man in volunruud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took some creative liberties with saxhleel customs, hope that it isn't too out of the ballpark to enjoy !!!

Though the fear of bandits looms every second the group travels through the mountain pass, she counts her blessings as none attack. Sanguine may be to thank for that but Kara doesn’t hold the Daedra in high enough regard to voice it. Her arm and abdomen continue to feel strange and out-of-place but there’s little tenderness and she can move and breathe normally.

Despite the week it takes to bypass the mountains and ruins of Helgen, Cicero doesn’t stir beyond faint bouts of terrifying lucidity where he is not the jester but the assassin of his past. She and Esbern take turns getting the Keeper water but neither can make him swallow food. Whatever the Thalmor did to him—and she makes a note to ask Astrid about any Thalmor-killing contracts—lingers in Cicero’s system. She has hopes that Babette’s knowledge of herbs and Festus Krex’s spellcasting expertise can discern the source of Cicero’s ills and cure him but a different part of her brain screams against holding high hopes. _How many times did you think something would happen only for it to go terribly wrong?  
_

She still hasn’t spoken to Sanguine about the hypothetical realities twisting or warping. Her primary thought is Cicero. If not for where Esbern splits ways with her at the path heading for Riverwood, she’d have forgotten he was there at all and carried him all the way to Falkreath’s sanctuary.

“You’re a strange Dragonborn, but you may be what this world needs to stop Alduin.” Esbern tells her kindly. He offers a hand; she shakes it and climbs back into the cart on the driver's end.

Velvet snorts.

“I imagine we’ll meet again,” the Dragonborn tells him swiftly. “Delphine doesn’t know of me yet—but don’t stop her when she comes my way. I’ll talk to her then.”

There’s a strange look in Esbern’s eyes. She’s beginning to get used to strange looks by strange men, but this one makes her pause. Esbern’s lips quirk down into a concerned frown and the old man sighs heavily. “Stay out of trouble. The Thalmor will be looking for you now too, Dragonborn. They have eyes, ears… everywhere.”

“If that happens, I’ll send them off the mortal world with a smile.” She snaps the reins and leaves the Nord. From the back of the cart she hears Sanguine snort. He’s amused by her solemn demeanor, or perhaps by the dramatic statements she makes.

The trip to Falkreath is relatively peaceful. There’s a disturbing lack of dragons in the region and she knows it isn’t because she killed them; she hasn’t killed a dragon in months. The flying winged lizards give her goosebumps regardless if her soul pleads to shed mortal flesh and join them. Sanguine dispatches any wild animal that strays too close and Kara makes a solemn note in her mind to get a bow and arrows the second they get to the Sanctuary. When the road veers in the direction of Falkreath—she knows the time has come to abandon the wagon. She gestures at Sanguine to pick Cicero up while she unties Velvet from the cart. The Listener leads them all into the woods.

At the Black door—she stops. “You need to be Sam Guevenne right now.”

“What? They never fucked with a Daedric Prince before?” He grins wickedly.

“Or you can just _go_,” Kara says. Her eyes narrow. “Astrid doesn’t… I don’t think she knows I’m the Dragonborn. And… Even if she _does_—She doesn’t know I’ve got an affair with the Lord of Debauchery. I don’t want her thinking less of me than she already does.”

“Affair with the Lord of Debauchery, huh?” The phrasing makes Sanguine exhale in pleasure. “I’m okay with that.”

“You’re not going to do it?” The Listener brushes past him to tie Velvet out of sight of outside glances but close enough to a pond so she has access to water. She pets the horse’s neck gingerly before returning to Sanguine. The woman holds out her arms. “Then give him to me. I’m accepting this world as _real_, Sanguine, and that means I am doing what’s in my best interest. For my own survival.”

The smile on Sanguine’s face is unnerving but she doesn’t falter or flinch. She glares at him and finds his red eyes draw her in less. She can resist it.

“As you wish. But don’t forget, Kara,” the Daedric Prince hands Cicero’s sleeping form to her and stays at eye-level. He whispers into one ear, “If you need me… Just call my name.”

He’s gone. Not even imprints of his boots remain in the earth.

_Stubborn Daedra._ She loosens an breathe she wasn’t aware she held. Her eyes narrow and she strides to the door and whispers the password under breath. The door welcomes her home and she steps inside. It shuts behind her without a sound. Though Astrid’s familiar form stands in the initial entrance room, the Listener shoots her a dangerous glance and walks by once the blond woman understands Cicero’s injuries. The woman seeks out Babette immediately; it’s easy when she comes unto the scene of an injured white-haired werewolf man growling and baring fangs at the much-smaller undeath assassin. The sight of Arnbjorn trying to fend Babette’s form off is comical to witness; Babette doesn’t do more than swat his arms and hands and head away as she dumps salves unto linens and wraps them tightly around Arnbjorn’s form.

“Look who the wolf dragged in.” Arnbjorn snarls.

The Listener growls back. It’s intimidating enough to make the werewolf smile in recognition of her temper.

“Babette. Cicero is injured and I don’t know how to help him.” The Listener drops titles or formalities as she lays Cicero out on a table near where Babette and Arnbjorn sit.

“You weren’t allowed to take others with you to the kill.” Astrid’s voice makes the Listener stiffen. “Dearest Kara, it’s not good to disrespect the rules.”

“He followed me of his own free will,” the Listener swears on Sithis the words are true. “I did not ask.”

“Little man’s a fool.” Arnbjorn snorts.

“He’s part of the family. He needs help, not your judgement,” She argues. She leaves out the need to beg and plead for Babette to hurry up and do something before her _dov _spirit engulfs her mind and terrorizes the entire region. “Babette. There were Thalmor—”

She can imagine Astrid’s perplexed look.

“—It—Something went wrong—Some kind of spell—Or an elven poison—I don’t know, I saw the tail end of it—” The Listener rambles on to the point of her hands clenching into fists. Her body posture tells a lot more than her words. She has the self-restraint to keep any mention of Daedric Princes out of her story.

Babette continues her work on Arnbjorn while the Listener stands and babbles. When the vampire finishes, she slaps Arnbjorn on the shoulder and huffs. “No transforming tonight. It will tear the stitches, aggravate the tissue and delay the healing process—You’re lucky Veezara didn’t sink his dagger in further. I’m not good at setting breaks and I’ve seen him fracture other’s collarbones from the impact of his blades.” She shrugs and smiles as Arnbjorn stalks off with Astrid at his heels helping.

It’s weird to see Astrid openly affectionate but the Listener spies their leader giving Arnbjorn’s hand a tight squeeze. She smiles at Astrid’s small gesture and turns to Babette as the vampire gives Cicero a once-over.

“…Dear, dear Listener, what is going on here?” Babette mutters under breath. She crosses her arms and grimaces. “I’ll have to talk to Festus. It looks magical rather than physical. I can get him some healing potions in the meantime and get him stable but Festus is who you’ll need to dig into the nitty-gritty bits of it. Who did you say did this?” The vampire begins digging through her alchemy supplies among an old dusty cabinet.

The Listener swallows. “Thalmor.”

“They would do it, yes, wouldn’t they? Listener,” Babette purses her lips and glances over her shoulder at Kara. “I’m all for respect and etiquette and manners but excuse me when I ask: are you sure you killed them all?”

“What?” She shivers.

“This might be a—I’m thinking possibly a long-lasting effect of a spell—Perhaps a new spell, an experimental sort? I would be desperate enough to use that kind of thing if I had to fight your fangs.” Babette smiles and shrugs. It’s intended as a complement, but Kara doesn’t feel the praise as Babette continues, “My thought is—What if you didn’t kill who you think you did? Did you check the bodies? Sever the spinal cord, the brain stem? You must _ensure—_no,_ confirm_ your kills, Listener. Bloody bodies can rise again. If the Thalmor who cast this spell lived then perhaps he has not dropped it. High elves are insufferably resilient when it comes to siphoning every last drop of magicka from their innate pools. That doesn’t take into account magicka restoring potions they may have on hand.”

“By Mara, I—I didn’t think of that. It was a week ago! And I was…” The Listener swallows. “I can’t tell you, Babette, but it was bad.”

“A member of the family cannot share with sweet, little Babette? I’m insulted.” The vampire’s eyes narrow. “Listen, _Kara_, you may be the Listener! But I know as well as anyone here that a lack of trust leads to ruin and you have a hard enough time as it is keeping Astrid’s trust. You don’t want anyone else to start thinking Astrid’s right, do you? Secrets lead to that. You’ll fence yourself off from your family and we won’t be able to support you or you us.”

“I feel like I’m being extorted.” The Listener squirms under Babette’s gaze.

The undeath child shrugs. “You are, in a way, but I’m giving you the choice of not pressing my fangs to your neck. In a manner of speaking, of course. I don’t fancy making a mortal dragon into an eternal vampire.”

Her eyes bug out. She feels her breath hitch and she _stares_ at Babette’s small yet horrifying form as the vampire resumes going through drawers and shelves to pick out various ingredients and gather empty vials. “That’s—”

“Everyone here knows, dovahkiin.” Babette says the term of ‘Dragonborn’ in dragonspeech with surprising ease. “If you were even trying to hide it—You failed. That’s that. Now do you want to build trust or are you going to shut us all out and fail at things on your own? Tell me what occurred so I can do my work as efficiently as possible. Festus will need to know too, by the way, you don’t want him casting the wrong spell to counteract whatever’s happened to our poor fool.”

Kara finds her knees wobble. She takes a seat on a stone chair before she falls. Her shoulders slump and she bows her head and quietly shares the entire story to Babette: Riften, Brynjolf, the contract going amiss, Cicero’s appearance and her subsequent savior, the panic attack—_everything _off the top of her head up to and beyond the point of her dying, Cicero dying, and a Daedric Prince marauding around making retorts and yelling at her. She only spares Babette the bits that involve her discussing or divulging information of what she once thought was her real world. 

“You live quite the life.” Babette smiles faintly. “I say that as a three-hundred-year-old vampire.”

The Listener grunts. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“But it’s yours. Though I have concerns over your panic attacks if that poses a problem in future contracts. Keep that mind in check and your blades close; you cannot let your own emotions come between you and the honor and glory of the Brotherhood and Night Mother. Sithis himself calls for offerings to the Void,” The vampire begins breaking down and mixing alchemical ingredients with one another. She smiles as she works. “I know this sounds harsh, Listener, and I _do _respect you, but you need to sort yourself out. Find resolve to your problems. Move on. Your life now is here with us, with the Brotherhood. With this fool, apparently, though I won’t lie—I am finding it hard not to judge your tastes in men.”

Kara shakes her head. “Don’t spread that around.”

“I won’t.” Babette grins. “If you bring me a snack…”

“I can try,” the Listener nods. “But you don’t get to be picky. It’s hard to handle a living target. And I don’t know when it might happen—I don’t know if Astrid will send me out today, tomorrow, or…”

“Send who out? You out?” Astrid’s head pops into view and she smiles at Kara. The blond-haired woman straightens upright and gestures at Cicero’s unconscious, breathing form. “And how is our Keeper?”

“I’m preparing some healing potions for him right now, with an extra kick to improve stamina regeneration. But I need Festus in here. Can you bring him?” Babette doesn’t look up at Astrid.

Astrid pauses. “He’ll live, then?”

“With Festus’ help and enough time, yes. He’ll recover. I don’t anticipate more than a few days necessary.” The vampire says.

“Good, good. Our Night Mother’s sanctuary has begun to gather dust. It’s unfitting for our… unholy patron,” Astrid nods. “And Veezara? I didn’t see him in here earlier.”

“He’s fine to kill. A health potion and the lacerations healed right up. You should be more concerned for your husband—We can’t let Veezara use poisoned blades in sparring matches from now on. I didn’t anticipate how badly a werewolf could react to it given Arnbjorn's regenerative properties. His wails were _aggravating_,” Babette hisses between clenched fangs. “His screeches—more so. But his tissue kept trying to regenerate over dissolving flesh. The flesh would re-dissolve the healing and it made this messy cycle—” She nudges all three ladies in the direction of a corner laden with bloody rags and chunks of flesh. “I had to cut it out at the source. Nothing enough rest, stitches, and my brews can’t fix, but…”

“Veezara’s poisons can do that to a werewolf?” Astrid’s brows furrow.

“Don’t underestimate the poisons of a Shadowscale that has access to alchemy ingredients.” Babette grimaces. "It's the only thing our friend Veezara knows when it comes to an alchemy table."

Silence falls on the group briefly before Astrid clears her throat. “In any case—I need to talk to the Listener. I’ll send Festus your way after. Come, Kara,” it’s not a suggestion but a command and though she yearns to stay by Cicero’s side she knows Babette can be trusted with his recovery. As the Listener trails after Astrid to the grand waterfall room, Astrid continues. “I won’t ask for details on why you took so long coming home. I know things happen. The important thing is that we received word the kill was successful. Gruesome, in fact. Our client was exuberant at the news.”

“I’m glad. The hag deserved it.” Kara breathes.

“But even if she didn’t—You did the job correctly and to our client’s specifications. Now, this is soon, I know, but I have another contract for you—”

“Shouldn’t I be listening to the Night Mother for my contracts?”

It’s a mistake to say and she regrets it immediately. Astrid’s stare is ice cold; she shoves the Listener against one of the stone-supports while the waterfall rumbles in the background. Astrid leans in close and whispers to the Listener, “I am the mistress here, Kara. Your orders come from _me_. If you have a problem with that then I’ll have a problem with you. We don’t want that.”

“We don’t want that.” The Listener whispers. She breathes again when Astrid moves back and the blond-lady smiles.

Astrid is dangerous. She knows that—but never this extent. It’s different than the game. It’s terrifying and real and she fears the leader of the Dark Brotherhood more than she despises her for her disrespect of the unholy matron.

“Calm now. This will be a fun kill. I’m sending you to Markarth…” Astrid rattles off a name, a town, and a house number. She throws in a vague description that Kara imagines could be anyone.

She nods but her mind is far from the sanctuary. She looks at Astrid meekly and hurries off the second Astrid lets her go. She finds her mind overwhelmed in a mush of emotions. _Astrid… She’s dangerous. She’s dangerous. I can’t trust her. She’ll hurt me. She’s like… _She swallows. _No. No, she isn’t! She fears me usurping her! Her fears of a random newcomer, a hero of prophecy, the legendary Listener who begins to rally the approval of peers—No shit she’s nervous. She’s not like him. I can’t say that. Even if she’s a bitch. _

In her desperate thoughts and circling rambles, she stumbles into the dusty, dry room of the Night Mother’s sanctuary. The Listener’s eyes widen. She stares in shock at the pungent smell and it clicks in her mind. _Cicero. He should have been tending to her. No, that’s—That is the smell of preservatives. He must have oiled her right before he left for Riften. Then... Is this room naturally this disgusting? Did it get this way because he was away? Or is it because no one cared to check up on our matron’s sanctuary? _Kara moves while the thoughts dance behind her eyes. She wipes down dust, brings in and lights candles, and hauls trash from the sanctuary into an adjacent room. She cleans the Night Mother’s casket and wipes the stained-glass portrait of _Sithis _clean.

_My child. _The Night Mother calls. _A soul has prayed for vengeance. A contract bound by blood is born._

Kara jumps and spins on her heels to face the closed coffin. She feels her breath climb out of her throat and she stammers and sputters. She is not capable of processing her matron’s words despite the soothing voice wrapping her in its ethereal comfort and affection. She stiffens and stares. “My matron—”

_You must go to Volunrund. Seek out the man who calls himself Amaund Motierre._ The Bride of Death, sworn to Sithis, and Blood Flower whispers the words into the Listener’s mind.

_My matron speaks. My matron… _The Listener listens. _But Astrid… _

_Do you fear those who disgrace Sithis’ name? _It is thought calmly but the Night Mother’s implications are clear.

Kara shakes her head. “I could never. I couldn’t… I won’t turn my back on you. On the Dread Father. I will find Amaund Motierre and the Dark Brotherhood will reign vengeance on the soul he seeks dead.”

_Dear, kind Kara. My devoted child… _And the words of the Night Mother stop. The ethereal presence fades and Kara is left alone in the sanctuary with a broom in her hands and her heart racing.

“I never thought our lovely Listener would be one to Listen with a broom.” The voice of the Brotherhood’s devious dunmer assassin fills Kara’s ears. Gabriella strides to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Relax, relax. If the Night Mother spoke to you—your destiny is written in the Void. You are the Listener. I’m not here to cut you down. Unless you steal my knitting needles, yes?”

“Her orders go against Astrid’s.” Kara blurts out before she can stop herself. She swallows. “I’m going against Astrid’s commands. Gabriella.”

It’s electrifying to have someone so beautiful and graceful so, _so _close. Gabriella saunters forward and tilts her head to one side. She strokes the Listener’s cheek with one gray hand and smiles warmly. “In the name of our unholy matron, no less. I hope you don’t mind me listening in to your half of the conversation… But I saw you arrive earlier today. I don’t know what happened with the Riften contract but I wanted to help you take a load off _now_.”

The dunmer picks up the fact Kara’s a wobbling, blushing mess, as Gabriella laughs and holds her hand to her face. She smiles at the Listener and puts both hands on the Listener’s arms, running them up and down soothingly.

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry. I know that comes off with exciting implications, but what I meant—I can help you, Listener, I believe so,” Gabriella nods and steps back. She looks around the sanctuary and grins. “Though—You got this place cleaned up quick. Glad I didn’t have to do that today.”

“Until Cicero recovers—Someone needs to.” Kara states.

“I’ll arrange it. But your contract comes first—both of them, actually,” Gabriella pauses. “Give me the details for the target Astrid contracted you to. I’ll carry out the kill in your place and you go to… Wherever our unholy matron told you to go. Agreed?”

If it wasn’t for the wild feelings and shakes gripping her insides, the Listener could have kissed Gabriella on the spot. The dunmers hand rises and for a moment Kara questions if _she _would kiss _her _on the spot instead—but despite the soft caress of Gabriella’s hand on her cheek, the dark elf backs off and trots to the door. She looks over her shoulder. “But I might take someone with you. You’re off your game, Listener. I didn’t make an effort to hide my steps walking here.”

“Veezara.” Kara speaks the name. “Is he out—”

“I don’t think so. You should ask yourself.” Gabriella’s wave as she walks out the sanctuary door makes the Listener swallow.

_I still have the ring to give him. _She remembers when she finds the Argonian. The first time she sees him in the dining hall, she turns tail and flees to the bunk hall where her pack lies next to her bed. She digs out the silver ring—hand-crafted by Madesi of Riften, she recalls—and turns it over in her hands before returning to the sanctuary’s kitchen. Veezara isn’t there and the Listener curses under breath as she begins the game of hide-and-seek to find the damn man before she grows impatient.

Part of her wonders as she goes—what of her and Cicero? Are they considered _something? _The Listener has no answer and won’t until Cicero awakens. She feels guilty at the thought but the first thing to come to her mind is Astrid’s ‘advice’ not to _fraternize. _Technically, a single kiss crossed that line, but she and Cicero didn’t push it further. They couldn’t in the Ratway sewage, not safely. Neither brought the issue up down there and she can't discuss it until Cicero regains consciousness. To give a ring to Veezara now would be… It would be something, but that doesn’t mean it would be _that _form of gift. Kara finds her thoughts drive her into an anxious corner and she throws them all out the mental window.

She’s not bound to a single man, unless her husband in another world counts, and at this point Kara wants nothing more than for _his_ neck to snap and him to fall over dead. In the world _Skyrim_, she is a free woman. Her heart belongs to whom she pleases. In the present she finds pieces of it scattered with different people, places, and entities. A part representing the affection of owner and companion lays with Velvet. A piece of deep emotional and physical attraction falls to the Fool of Hearts. She can safely say that a bit of her heart was stolen by Gabriella the second the dunmer spoke of stabbing unicorns to death. And Veezara… _Him too. Him too. Him and—No, not Sanguine. Not the Daedric Prince. _

“I’ll ask Veezara to join me.” The Listener says aloud. She wills any other thought of the Lord of Debauchery out of her mind and far, far away.

Gabriella is right in her call for the Listener to take someone with her. The Listener’s spatial awareness is off and she doesn’t register where she wanders to until she trips on the rocks jutting out from the edge of the natural lagoon in the waterfall chamber. _Splash. _

Kara flails and swims to the surface. She pulls herself out huffing and puffing and grumbling in irritation at her careless excuse. She hears soft chuckles from nearby and her eyes dart across the room. It takes a moment to realize the sounds are not from the training dummies, or even the forge where she expects to see Arnbjorn, but from behind her _in _the lagoon. The looks over her shoulder and narrows her eyes at the sight of Veezara relaxed a few feet out. He sits cross-legged on a shallow edge and his torso, shoulders, and head peer at her from above the water. He’s amused with her! And of all the ways she bumped into him… _I desperately need someone watching my back. _

“Hey.” The Listener clears her throat and sits facing him. She shivers but ignores the cold water dripping down her back from her wet hair.

“Hello, Sister, Listener.” Veezara greets her formally and smiles. “Gone for a swim?”

“Would you believe me if I say yes?” Kara bites her lip.

The Argonian blinks. “It isn’t good to lie.”

“I was looking for someone.” The Listener crosses her arms and lets her feet dangle in the pool, water soaking through her leather shin guards. The enchantments will keep the leather from growing mold.

“Did you find him?” Veezara asks.

“I guess I did,” She shifts in her spot and eyes him. He’s incredibly calm and composed. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“You said my name when you walked in here. It isn’t like you to be so jumpy. Nor distracted, Listener,” he responds in a smooth tone. “What can I help you with? Has Astrid given you a contract outside your comfort zone?”

“I need someone to take to Volunruud. The Night Mother has spoken to me.” Kara shuts her eyes and breathes in slowly. She pulls her legs out of the water and stands up. Her hands run through sopping wet hair and she quickly wrings out the long locks before pulling it back into a messy ponytail. When the Listener looks back at Veezara she finds he watches her curiously; it provides the moment she needs to quietly add. “—I also needed to give you something. I… Got it during my Riften contract.”

The Listener tries not to make too big a fool of herself as she fumbles through her pockets and pulls out the cold silver-steel of Madesi’s craftsmanship. The warping of metal to mold it into a sneaky, subtle snake shape gives her cause to smile. She puts a hand on her hip and peers at the Argonian.

“Are you coming?”

“Thinking of it.”

“The answer needs to be yes because if you don’t come then I need to ask someone else. Maybe Nazir—” The Listener bites her lip. “Is he here? I didn’t see him.”

“Contract in Solitude,” Veezara pulls himself from the water. He shakes himself off and straightens upright.

“Then… Well. If you say no—I’ll have to go by myself.” The Listener states. “And I’ll have to leave right away. But you’ll get to go back to meditating under a waterfall, for what it’s worth.”

“That’s a foolish thought, Listener, to go alone when you think so carelessly,” the Argonian strides to her and tilts his head. His yellow eyes watch her every move. “I will go with you; I will not let a member of the Brotherhood act foolishly with no regard for her well-being. But you have caught my curiosity—What is it you wish to give me?”

She hands over the silver band and manages to keep eye contact despite his hand brushing her own. She swallows and says, “It’s Argonian. There’s a merchant in Riften who makes all of his jewelry custom. Hand-crafted, I mean—It’s Argonian-crafted. You understand what I mean, Veezara. Sorry I stabbed you that one time.”

His reaction is puzzling. Veezara takes the ring and holds it to his face. He turns it over and stares at the shaped metal figure of the snake eating itself. The Argonian pauses, opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it. He looks at her curiously and it is a look that is a little too tender for what she expects of the man. “This is… something I did not expect. Listener.”

“I hope it suffices.” Is all she can say. "What do you think of it?"

Veezara takes the ring and ungloves one hand. He hesitantly slips it on. “…It fits the size of my finger. Then it is so. This will be mine. In the near-future, I will take initiative to find yours.”

“Find my _what?” _The Listener asks.

“Your ring,” Veezara says matter-of-factly. “The rings of engagement are not identical for two partners in Saxhleel custom. One band must always represent the cycle of life in the Black Marsh. The other embodies the _Hist_. It is a sacred part of Saxhleel life in the Black Marsh. That band must always possess three gemstones. Two for the newlyweds and one for the _Hist_. I will make arrangements to procure yours. It will take time; flawless amethysts must be used and they are a rarity in this region.”

The Listener stiffens and gawks at him. She feels her inner _dov _soul react with as much confusion as the look on her face.

Veezara peers at her and frowns. “What is it?”

“The ring I just gave you—” She stammers out and grits her teeth. If she sees Madesi’s face again she’ll tear the Argonian—Saxhleel?—limb-from-limb in words. The Listener holds her gaze steady with Veezara’s yellow eyes and asks. “Is it used for _marriage proposals? _Did I just—"

“Yes, you did.” Veezara’s smile returns. It’s of amusement. She sees the gears start turning in his head as Veezara asks, “The merchant in Riften did not mention this? It’s a specific design of ring, separate from Skyrim’s band of Matrimony.”

“I am so, so sorry,” The Listener shuts her eyes. “It didn’t—I didn’t think about that—About the cultural difference—”

“Calm yourself, Listener. I am not angry, though I will hold unto this for now.” Veezara slips his glove over his hand and the ring disappears underneath the leather padding. He looks at her with a nod. “In the past… Shadowscales were not permitted to marry with the freedom of other Saxhleel. I would not be able to recognize your proposal more than verbal agreement and physical actions. This ring… is merely a ring on my hand. But there are still Saxhleel customs surrounding the breaking of engagements. I will look into it if the matter lingers in your mind.”

Her cheeks flush faintly. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Of course.” Veezara catches her gaze. His lips fall into a thin, neutral frown. “To bestow yourself to another in such fashion… It does not suit you, Listener. You are the chosen of Night Mother. Who you pledge yourself to must be your choice—even if it is not me.” The words make her stomach flip-flop.

“What do you mean by that? Even if it's not you?” She presses.

“I assumed your past actions reflected a shift in the emotions you possess for certain members in the Dark Brotherhood.” Matter-of-factly stated, Veezara’s eyes no longer meet her own. “Are you comfortable with current arrangements? I won’t take offense should you seek another partner for this kill, Listener.”

“No, no—We are mature adults. It was a misunderstanding and it was cleared up. I’d like you by my side.” The Listener averts her gaze after a second. She straightens upright and exhales sharply. “In fact, we should get going. I don’t know the route to Volunruud but my guess is we will need to make stops in Riverwood or Whiterun for supplies. My horse is outside; we’ll take her. One horse is less noticeable than a caravan of them. And... Wait, I also need to replenish my potion supply, swap out my armor, and get another bow and quiver before we depart.”

“Gabriella did not fix your armor when you came in? The elf is slacking.” Vazeera pauses. “Did you show her it? You did, yes?”

“My mind was busy with other things.” The Listener grumbles. “I’ll meet you outside in an hour. Bring your poisons and enough rations to hold you over a week. Oh—And an invisibility potion. I’d have finished the Riften contract much faster if I used one after my kill.”

Veezara nods. There are unspoken questions left on the Listener’s lips, but she ignores the urge to entertain them and moves on to begin resupplying and stocking herself with shiny enchanted daggers and an actual bow. Her back feels right with a quiver on it and the bow fits into her hand nicely as she borrows it from the Brotherhood armory. She checks in briefly with Babette and finds the vampire watching Festus perform an elaborate spell on her poor fool of Hearts. It’s with a heavy heart she acknowledges Cicero is not awake to say goodbye. Any hypothetical conversations will have to wait until she returns. 

She’s given extra healing potions by Babette on her way out the Black door. By the time it shuts behind her she’s gone half-hour past the time she meant to be moving out of the sanctuary. Veezara wears heavy travel robes and hands her an extra one as the two walk to Velvet and saddle the mare. Veezara lets the Listener up first; she feels him climb unto the horse behind her. His hands linger on her waist and she pretends not to acknowledge the electricity that shoots up her spine. 

_To Volunruud._


	15. laas yah nir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> her actions cause things between her and veezara to come crashing to the ground a night short of volunruud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer i took some liberties with shadowscale training exercises

As it turns out, Volunruud is not so much a dwarven city opposed an ancient Nordic tomb. The Listener tries not to dwell on her misconception, but the error is picked up by both the man she pays for directions and by the Argonian traveling with her. Though Veezara does not judge her, the man with maps and directions does. The Listener refrains from slitting his throat long enough to hear out the way forward before she sends the Nord to the Void. It’s a rudimentary kill but her _dovah _temper flares enough to consider is necessary. She and Veezara pick up speed after that; Velvet carries them both into the depths of the Pale, the region directly north of Whiterun, where the map points to _Volunruud _as located near a bandit camp called Halted Stream Camp.

They are a day out when they stop for the evening. The Listener puts together a small fire in a crook of several mountainous boulders while Veezara sets up bedrolls. Neither speak until done. Though the Listener has words to say and ask and seek, she holds her tongue and imagines her comrade doing the same. It isn’t his fault for her _miscommunication _at the sanctuary; it is entirely her fault for prodding and poking the matter the first day of travel and then becoming obsessed with no clear answers on the second. She keeps her mouth to herself and her thoughts closer as she uncorks a waterskin and swallows the cool liquid down. The fire crackles softly nearby and she adds a log to the tiny, growing flames.

“Tomorrow we’ll reach Volunruud. We can bypass the bandits.” She shuts her eyes. “Amaund Motierre will be there. And then… Then we go home.”

“Then we go home.” Veezara repeats. He sits across from her on the opposite side of the fire. His back presses to the uneven surface of a boulder and he pulls out dry rations: a strangely-odorless meat with peppercorn flaking its side.

The Listener frowns. “Veezara.”

The Argonian is mid-bit when she says his name. He offers her a slab of the ration but she waves him off and finds her own nestled in her pack. She can hear Velvet snort from just beyond where the entrance to their tiny crevice camp lingers. “Listener. You need something?”

“We’re distracted. It’s my fault, but we’re _still distracted.”_ The Listener exhales. “Tomorrow we will face the client, learn of the kill, and depart. It may bring us into contact with the bandits. It will be imperative we represent the Brotherhood well. That means no distractions.”

“I think those are wise words, but late,” he says. “They would have fit us better at the start of this journey, Listener.”

“That’s my fault.”

“Yes. It is.” Veezara rips off a strip of meat. Peppercorns dot his cloak.

“I’m sorry about that. I know—I need to control my tongue. I’m not good at that. Or at apologies. But,” She bites her tongue and exhales. “…We have to resolve this.”

“You’ve spoken to Babette recently.” He observes sharply.

She nods.

“Very well, Listener, you are not wrong. Distractions lead to carelessness,” Veezara states. “Allow me to go first. You have _irritated _me with your endless questioning on a matter that was shut the day of our departure. I don't understand your curiosity.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s about right.” Kara pulls her cowl down and lets her hair loose. It settles at her shoulders and splays over her traveling cloak. “This will be a strange question. I’m asking it anyways as a transition to discussing other topics that relate to the whole nature of distractions. So—Humor me, Veezara. Do you trust me, your Listener?” At the pause that follows, the Listener’s chest grows heavy. “There we are. Okay. Next question: do you trust me as a member of the Dark Brotherhood?”

“To an extent.” The Argonian answers.

“If I tried to tell you an outrageous story about how I come from another world and wound up entangled in Daedric Prince-nonsense and time wounds—You would think I’m absurd. A fool, if you will.” Her eyes narrow at Veezara and she swallows. _Find the resolve. Find the strength for the resolve. The resolution. The… _

She slowly stands and strips herself of her cloak. Her chest piece follows and reveals her thin tunic underneath. It’s partial transparency hints at the small cotton garments underneath keeping her chest at bay. She spies Veezara start to say something, but the Listener shuts him up with a stern look and unbuttons her blouse. She pulls the shirt off and shudders from the cool night air and snow kissing her skin. The temperature is strangely soothing for the _dov _inside her soul, but it isn’t because of her _Dragonborn _nature she takes the action. She stretches out her arm where only weeks ago a Thalmor impaled her with his blade, and she takes care to draw his gaze back to her chest where her abdomen below is marred in obsidian Dremora tissue.

“I am absurd. Right now I am absurd—Cold—Ridiculous—But _I have proof_,” Kara exhales slowly. She waits a short while to make sure it sinks in what the black tissue is before she dons her blouse, puts her chest piece on, and pulls up her traveler’s cloak. Veezara is silent and he waits for her to continue. She does so.

“There’s a lot that’s happening with me, that I’m involved with, Veezara, but I’m trying to open up,” She sits down and holds her head in her hands. “So--I’ll tell you everything. Anything you want to know. You choose to believe what you want to believe.”

And when Veezara doesn’t ask a single question she takes the initiative to tell him _everything:_ “I’m a twenty-nine-year-old retail worker who’s married to a man possessing a temper worse than the World Eater. He’s hurt me before. I’ve tried to leave but I always come back; I’m _stuck _and I’m too scared to try leaving him again, he’s strangled me—He left bruises on my neck. I got myself dumped time-and-time again in this universe because whenever I die the world _resets_ and I have to go through Ralof’s useless dialogue. I unintentionally made the Daedric Prince of Debauchery obsessed with my soul and I might have set off a whole lot more Princes who are vying for me like I’m a piece of _dovahkiin _meat.”

Kara sucks in a breath. “I know a lot of major events in this universe. I know how things end, how life happens, when and where and _why _Alduin falls. I know the secrets of Sky Haven Temple, the darkness that is Blackreach, and the location of Auriel’s bow. I’ve talked to Daedra, been a werewolf, a vampire, married too many people to count, and I’ve led both the Stormcloak Army and the Imperial Army to victory under the guise of different faces and forms. I’ve punched in late, put up with screaming customers, and survived a twelve-hour shift on _Black Friday_. And all of it overwhelms me.”

She looks up. “My name isn’t really Kara. It’s not God, it’s not Ah-something, it’s definitely not Dragonborn and it’s not Kara—But I can’t remember what it is and it _terrifies _me. I don’t belong here, Veezara, but I’m here—And sometimes I want to be here in _Skyrim_—And other times I feel conflicted and indecisive because it’s _not_ where I belong! And my brain magnifies _every little thing _into a catastrophe—Every indecision, every thought and feeling and guilt—And the part it’s focused on right now, the question that’s screaming in my head at me more than this _dov_ in my soul—” She breathes. “What the _fuck _did you mean by ‘even if it’s not me’? Because a lot is going on in my head! I want to know if you actually wanted to marry me—Because I’ve _lived_ my answer. I’ve married you before. Dozens and dozens of times. And mods it took to make it possible took too long to install.” She pants, out of breath, but she’s not finished in her tangent and mish-mash of thoughts.

“I’ve married every man and lady and person in Skyrim, it feels like. Every person of every gender that’s appealed to me. It’s in… It’s part of me going through games. Seeking this out like it’s a reasonable and thoughtful escape from my _actual _life. But that’s not healthy. Babette, Sanguine, everyone—they’re right,” The Dragonborn’s eyes dim. “I’m self-destructing and going down in flames and every time I get a little bit closer to healing, I feel like I am knocked five steps back.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are full of disbelief at the slush of words, even after seeing the Dremora tissue embedded in her flesh.

The Listener swallows. “I know you don’t think it’s true. I don’t either. But I feel like my mind is going to _snap_, Veezara. It’s fixating on things, on people, on thoughts—And right now it’s fixating on what you said—In case you meant it that way—In case you _wanted _it to mean that way—”

“Have you been taken in by Sheogorath? Only a Daedra could speak such strange things.” Veezara’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not Sheogorath. Or a Daedra. I’m,” Kara looks at her own dry-meat ration. It feels heavy in her hands. She isn’t hungry anymore. “I don’t remember who I am. I can’t.”

Veezara pauses. “You sound like a Nord who’s eaten too many glowing mushrooms. This is unbecoming, Listener.”

“I know.” The Listener acknowledges.

“I don’t say this lightly but I’m struggling to understand,” Veezara’s brows furrow. It’s a strange expression for an Argonian who doesn’t have hair for brows but bumpy ridges and scales. “Your ‘experiences’ rattle you. Your emotions exist in a state of instability. You fear a marriage arrangement with an entity beyond Nirn. Beyond Oblivion and Aetherius?”

“Let’s say yes.” Kara doesn’t want to explain the headache of those words right now. “Yes. Beyond reach.”

“…you are also involved with a Daedric Prince.” Veezara adds.

“It’s a complicated arrangement—The markings on me are result of his magic.” she feels a sliver of heat on her face as she adds quietly. “I was dying. It was his method of healing me.”

“How your mind has not fallen to Sheogorath is beyond me, Listener,” The Argonian shuts his eyes. He rubs his head and breathes. “Your lack of closure on minor conflict—You truly internalize those events and begin catastrophizing them.”

“I do.” Kara mumbles.

“Why tell me this? Listener. Sister. Did you anticipate me believing you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been having trouble with… Gods. With what, I wonder? Everything? No, not just—Not just that—Not just these blown-up conflicts in my head, Veezara. I’m freaking out over the thought of being vulnerable. Or weak. Or—Or—”

“I want to say I understand.” The Argonian continues eating. "Listener."

Her shoulders slump. “I’m so afraid of opening up. I’m worried. What if this life isn’t real? None of it? What if I am pulled back into the world that doesn’t make sense to you but terrifies me. And I just—I thought if I could tell _you_— Even if you judge me for it— I’ll have taken a small step to unraveling the mess in my head. Untangling things. I want to be more than this _mess_, Veezara. I want to move on, as Babette might put it.”

“I _do_ judge you. Most call it selfish to project your problems unto others. But,” Veezara pauses and looks thoughtful. “…You’re part of the Dark Brotherhood; a member of our family. We do not have others to fall on. We have only ourselves and the Dread Father’s Void to confide in, only the Night Mother’s will and our eternal service to bring Sithis blood.”

Kara turns her head away. “I am sorry, Veezara. Both for my questions and for dumping my problems on you when I'm trying to apologize.”

“There is something I want you to try,” the Argonian stands and grabs his waterskin from his pack. He catches the Listener’s eyes and pauses. “If you are honest about wanting to change and control yourself—Something came to mind.”

He puts out the fire. Kara stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“Wait until the light is extinguished,” Is the response she receives.

When the sun has set and the sky is but a mess of midnight-blue obscured by dark violet clouds, Veezara finally moves. He’s adjusted their bedrolls to lay side-by-side and encompass a small square of ground within an already-cramped space. The boulders retain hints of heat from earlier in the day. He takes her wrist and pulls her from her seat to the bedroll’s new positions. She watches him sit but when she tries to do the same Veezara shakes his head and points to a spot behind him on the bedroll.

“Back to me.” The Argonian directs her.

“Alright.” 

“In the past, Shadowscales would take time throughout their training to periodically undergo form of conditioning. It is meant to de-sensitize yourself to another’s intimacy and not be distracted by the body’s reaction, the mind’s thoughts, or emotions of the soul.” Veezara explains after the Listener sits with her back to his own. “It is through this process a Shadowscale explores vulnerability while learning to navigate it. The legacy of Shadowscales ends with my life but perhaps the practice can help you know.

She hears the rustle of clothes and realizes it’s the sound of him undressing. Her posture becomes rigid and she swallows nervously when she feels his bare back press against hers.

“You too,” Veezara instructs.

If it were anyone but him asking that and under this specific context—the Listener shuts her eyes and halts the thought before it becomes worse. She takes her traveling cloak and unclasps it from her shoulders, pulls off her chest piece and arm guards, and peels off gloves. She stops at her blouse and hesitates. “Everything?”

“The top half,” the Argonian answers.

She slowly unbuttons her blouse for the second time that evening and slips it off. The soft garments keeping her breasts out of the way come loose and she exhales sharply at sweet night air rushing across her skin. She leans her bare back against his. “Okay. What now?”

“We stay like this for a time. I’ll instruct you what to think, feel, or do. You follow my word,” Veezara’s words come quietly. “Press your back to mine.”

Already the heat wells in her stomach. She feels his scales push into her skin and she bites her lower lip to stay quiet. The Listener concentrates on her breathing and keeping herself optimistic. Veezara says it will help; he is not one to lie.

“Think about the pressure on your skin, the texture of what lays there..”

She shivers. “The scales of your back—They’re pressing into me. But they aren’t rough. They’re smooth. It’s like a fine-set cobblestone road. Or a nice series of kitchen tiles.” She smiles faintly at the latter, even if she knows he doesn’t understand the sentiment. “Your back isn’t made of sandpaper.”

“I don’t know what sandpaper is, Listener—but it sounds perplexing.” Veezara pauses to comment. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Anxiety, mainly. Nervousness. Nausea,” the Listener shudders. “My heart wants to explode out of my chest.”

“Stay still.” Veezara instructs. He shifts against her and Kara’s face blazes red from the close movement and sensation of scales drifting across her back. After he settles, the Argonian begins again. “Think about the pressure on your skin. The texture. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Tell them to me.”

This begins a repetitive routine where the Argonian adjusts how he sits and interrogates Kara on her physical and mental response. Though initially embarrassing—it soon becomes part of a ‘routine,’ and her responses go from extreme and jarring to more manageable. Again, again, and again, the Last Shadowscale pushes her through repeating the exercise. An hour passes. When Kara asks if he intends to take a break, she hears Veezara chuckle and his back shift against her once more, “Not until you're done.”

That is the moment something clicks in the Listener’s mind. The effectiveness of the practice is not the act of baring skin back-to-back and forcing one to navigate questions that cross into personal, it is the monotony of repeating the practice again, again, _again _until the idea of proximity is not a trigger for the mind, body, or soul. Veezara is effective at drawing it out of her and forcing her to confront the words, thoughts, and feelings that come to mind whenever he comments, acts, or so-much breathes. The variety of responses diverges from a heart-thumping adrenaline rush to shame and nausea over perceived intimacy. He repeats the process again, again, and again at each reaction. Not even the tired or complaining responses deter him as he pushes her to continue the exercise and routine for hours.

“When you hear me breathe, what comes to mind?” Veezara speaks calmly as he continues.

Kara grits her teeth. “I think of ways to make you repeat the sound.”

“And what feelings are triggered by that thought?”

“I told you before—” She snaps but hears him sigh. The Listener inhales deeply and tries again, “I feel bold. Afraid. A bit fearful, but of myself.”

“Alright,” Veezara breathes. “Again.”

After the third hour, she’s become pissed with the questions, the answers, the questions again. She’s tired. Veezara doesn’t let her rest and keeps her back upright against his own. Occasionally his tail snaps at her side to recapture her focus through her heavy lids and yawns. She grumbles and shuts her eyes as he begins to ask again, this time emphasizing her need to focus on how her body feels. Snow falls from the sky and she fights back shivers. _At least my dov is pleased. I’ll have to stop to warm myself up later.   
_

It makes her sleep-deprived, chilled to the bone, _and_ grouchy—but she’s successful completing the Shadowscale exercise after seven grueling hours of cramped legs, an aching back, and an annoyed attitude at her inability to flop on the ground. Veezara draws the exercise to a halt suddenly when she gives him a response of, “I feel nothing but contempt for how ludicrous this is and how _exhausted _it makes me.”

To her surprise—Veezara pats her back once and moves to pull his top armor on. “We'll practice more tomorrow, Listener.”

“Wait—Again?” The Listener’s eyes water from the cold.

“You can’t master your reactions in a night. It takes months of repetition to condition yourself in this way. You haven't pushed yourself to the point you can apply this to other stimuli in the environment. Now, there are precious few hours of darkness left before the sun rises,” the Argonian slips into his bedroll, armor and all. She can’t help but question if he ever gets out of it. “We are meeting with the client tomorrow. It is imperative we represent the power and glory of the Brotherhood.”

“I said something like that, didn’t I?” She sighs and messes with her bedroll. For a moment she contemplates moving it into its previous space, but her tired body nags her to lie down already. She exhales and does so. It’s not as warm as she would like but at least she isn’t freezing like she was when their backs were to each other in the darkness and falling snow. _That was a nightmare and a half. _

But she doesn’t sleep. She tries to but it goes nowhere, and her shivers and shudders lead to her mouthing curses versus saying them. She decides to sit up and climb out of her bedroll. She too made attempts to sleep in armor, and her shrouded leather garb clings to her thin tunics beneath it as well as to her skin. She rubs her eyes and yawns when it dawns on her the sun has yet to rise and darkness continues to envelop her and Veezara’s small camp. She casts the sleeping Argonian a glance. He looks infinitely peaceful wrapped up in the bedroll. The sight is endearing in its own way; how amusing to see such a deadly assassin appear so innocent.

Unless the assassin’s name is Babette. Kara shakes her head at the thought. _She always appears innocent. Knows it, too. _

She decides to cast a silent Flames spell at their fire pit. She reaches her palms out and exhales softly at the faint crackling of dancing flames and burning wood. The heat feels divine on her hands. Her eyes shut and she inhales the smoky aroma. It soothes her _dov _in a way; fire and ice alike tend to bring her dragon spirit back from the brinks of furious rage.

_Unless Thalmor are involved. _Her heart grows heavy at the thought, but she finds the usual anger absent. She redirects her thoughts to the jester who was injured by their hands. _He’s probably awake by now. Babette and Festus are a dangerous combination. Those two are enough to handle him and any strange spells dancing through his system. _

The fire casts a lovely set of shadows on the boulders. Kara smiles faintly. She doesn’t flinch or sputter or jump when she spies a shadow move strangely in the corner of her gaze; she simply turns and looks at Veezara as he sits up and rubs his eyes. He looks at her. “You’re awake.”

“The whole tale of me being from another world and all?” She pauses. “It keeps me up some nights.”

“If you continue tonight's work—in time those may stop,” The Argonian’s sleepy gaze is comical given his large yellow eyes and fascinating scale features. “Mine did.”

“Yours did? What—” The Listener considers the words before continuing. She shuts her mouth, nods, and looks at the tiny fire she’s nurtured. “I hope that happens. It would be nice.”

Though she expects Veezara to go back to sleep, he joins her at the firepit. His grogginess hangs off the man and she can’t help but stare curiously when he sits next to her.

“The flames on this side burn brightly. It’s warmer here,” Veezara shuts his eyes and sighs. “How deep does your magic go?”

“Deep enough.” The Listener crosses her arms and pulls her knees to her chest. She pauses and gives the Argonian a glance before the thought flees. “I am sorry. For many things. But right now: I am sorry for freaking out on you, Veezara, and for snapping on you too many times the past twenty-four hours alone, and for causing cultural misunderstandings that in retrospect are almost funny to reflect on. If I drank—that one might be a good bar story.” She says with a weak shrug.

Veezara lifts his head. “Why did you demand my response, Listener?”

“Besides the terror of inadvertently becoming vulnerable to someone? Or the fear of having a world full of those I care for be ripped away?” Kara huffs. When she looks at him again, she finds his drowsy yellow eyes watching her. “Do you really want to know?”

“I don’t know what to believe—of all you have said, claimed, stated. For you to ask so many times—Why?” 

“Don’t laugh.” Kara warns. And if he _does _laugh she’s not certain she can stop herself from bursting into tears with how sleepy she is. She swallows and sucks in air for courage—and breathing. “There’s a lot of people in Skyrim. And that goes for Khajit and Argonians as well that—That I,” Though she doesn’t blush, her words fail. “I’m not sure the word. Desire?”

“Desire.”

She buries her face in her knees and grimaces. “I _am _terrified of becoming vulnerable with others. Physically intimate. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want that or those things. I,” Kara presses herself to continue despite the familiar ping of anxiety crawling up her throat. “I wouldn’t mind it. Veezara. If we…” She swallows. She feels tiny, like an adolescent struggling with a school crush all over again.

“Ah,” He pauses. “And tomorrow, what will you do?”

“What will I do?” The Listener blinks. “What—What about you? What will you do? Veezara—”

“I’ll think, I’ll follow orders, meet the client, begin the contract; all simple work. But you are not simple,” the Argonian’s eyes meet hers. “Will you act like this conversation didn’t occur?”

_He wants to know if we’ll go back to the way things are? To… _Kara shakes her head. “No. I don’t want that. I need to resolve my issues—My problems—My fears—That means I can’t ignore them. I need to continue the Shadowscale exercise. Preferably with you,” the Listener bites her lip. “Until my _dov _and I both rein in our tempers and control our reactions. Besides that—I have to meet the client. Begin the contract. Like you said, simple work.”

“And us?” Veezara presses.

She doesn’t let herself look away. She keeps their shared gaze steady. “I don’t want to run away.”

The edge of his lips quirk into a smile.

“—But,” she pauses. “But I need you to be aware. Before lines are crossed, Veezara. I’m not—I’ve got a big heart; let call it that. I’m the sort of individual that loves many people. I didn’t realize this in my _marriage arrangement _for years. But it’s important you know—I can’t tell you I will hypothetically love you and only you,” she clears her throat. It’s weird to sound out the word ‘love’ aloud when talking to an assassin. “Could you be okay with that? Because if you aren’t—” Her words end when the urge to yawn becomes irresistible.

She holds her breath when he presses his lips to her forehead. _“Rest.”_

He’s warm. She’s cold. She wraps her arms around him and breathes in the heat of his form. For a time, she thinks she won’t sleep but to her surprise her consciousness drifts away in time and she rests for a short while.

Come dawn, she stirs to the scene of herself wrapped up in bedrolls and cloaks. She finds herself sandwiched firmly in both her own and Veezara’s bedrolls. She spies the two’s travel cloaks draped across her body. Veezara sits by the fire, tending to dying flames. He meets her eye and nods. “You slept.”

“I guess I did, didn’t I?” She says. “Thank you for letting me use your bedroll. And cloak.”

“Listener,” he calls her to the fire pit. She sits next to him and he splits a dry meat ration down the middle. “Kara. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” she confesses. She cracks her knuckles and exhales. “I want this to go well. All of this.”

“I don’t see why it won’t. We are the Brotherhood.” Veezara chews on a strip of meat.

It’s a comforting sound, smell, presence.

“Last night—You mentioned you had nightmares too.” The Listener eyes him. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know the tale.”

“But you experienced it. It caused you grief. It cursed your sleep. That’s enough for me to sympathize,” the woman shrugs and nibbles her ration. The peppercorns provide a snappy, spicy flavor against the dull hint of beef on her tongue. “I’d like to continue the Shadowscale exercises tonight.” Another thought crosses her mind and she pauses.

“Is that all?” Veezara finishes the remnants of ration and licks his fingers clean. He peers at her curiously. “You look like you want to continue speaking.”

“I remembered something about Volunruud.” She shakes her head. “There’s a word wall there.”

Veezara stands. “I’ll need you to explain.”

“It contains dragon speech, the language of _dov,” _Kara inhales. “I need to find it before we leave Volunruud.”

“You mentioned existing as different forms in this realm, of having knowledge of… certain things,” Veezara doesn’t sound fully sure of his own words. She doesn’t blame him; the mere notion of repeating life cycles is asinine to her even if though applies.

The Listener rolls up the bedrolls as she thinks through her response. She finishes her own and takes care of Veezara’s in slow, lingering minutes. She tosses it at the Argonian when done and dons her travel cloak. “Yes.”

“Don’t you know what the word is? Why go to the wall?” Veezara slips his pack on and his cloak followers thereafter.

“I’m not a computer,” Kara begins but stops and reconsiders her phrasing after Veezara looks painfully confused. “—I’m not a magical tome of _knowledge_. I don’t remember all the things I experienced throughout my play--My experiences. I remember certain figures of speech, of the magic comprising my thu’um: my shouts. But _this_ word I’m missing.” She looks thoughtful a moment and smiles faintly. “But I do know it’s part of a _shout _called Aura Whisper. I remember what it means.”

“You can share, Listener,” Veezara doesn’t hide the curious tone as the two kill their fire and head out of camp to Velvet. The horse lifts her head and stomps the ground.

Kara stops at the mare’s side and gently strokes her neck. She shuts her eyes and relaxes as she explains. “Life. It means life.”


	16. threatening a daedric prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she fears dragons, bandits are annoying, and the dragonborn begin to make moves in the dangerous game she and her daedric prince play together.

Amaund Motierre is a pompous man with pale skin and short brown hair. He’s well-groomed and capable of switching between flattery to demands in a second. Though the Dragonborn attempts to ignore the fluttering of eyelashes and sideways glances, she finds it’s impossible when Amaund Motierre does everything in his fine-clothed behind to insert himself in her space. Her fingers clench into fists as she eyes him but the presence of another Dark Brotherhood member nearby keeps her _dov _in check.

“As I said,” the man begins again with a wave of his hands. He inches closer and smiles in a way that is as charming as it is repulsive. “I want you to kill several people! For me.”

The stench of dust and dead of the old Nord tomb prompts the Dragonborn to turn her head to the side and retch. She feels Veezara’s smile from behind her. It’s not nearly so amusing for the woman as she taps a foot and waits for Amaund Motierre to continue his appeal.

“You’ll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I’m sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it _enjoyable_,” he begins the spiel again with a huff. “But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I’m speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of…”

“The Emperor.” She finishes the sentence for him. When she first ran through the cutscene in her original playthrough, she thought it was exciting to listen to the young man go off and begin rambling about such lethal political intrigue. But now, with some degree of acceptance that she is now truly immersed in the life of a Dragonborn, she does not care to put up with egoistical men. Sanguine is enough to deal with in the rare times he’s summoned.

“…Yes. How did you know? Did you—You didn’t tell her, did you, Rexus?” Amaund calls to his burly bodyguard and childhood friend.

The burly bodyguard shakes his head. His muscles remind her of a bodybuilder.

“The Dark Brotherhood knows many things. We are here to serve Sithis and drag those contracted in blood to the Void,” she offers a cryptic explanation with her tongue tied in the lie. Her head already hurts at the thought of trying to explain multiple realities and Daedric Prince sorcery to yet _another _person. “Go on.”

“I thought—”

“Business is business.” Veezara cuts in from behind.

Amaund Motierre grimaces and nods in acceptance. He looks between the two assassins before returning to her personal space and siding her up with a quick glance, “As long as it is within the purview of—Of what you Dark Brotherhood types do—It is, isn’t it? If history is to be believed? I know recent times bid the Brotherhood ill luck but—I am certain your luck is about to change!”

“If the Brotherhood sought luck we would pledge to Nocturnal.” She grits her teeth. All the practice she and Veezara went through that evening is out the window every time Amaund Motierre’s rattling voice bangs apart her eardrums.

“Of course, of course, you—You don’t need luck, no, no, no, see—It’s just—” The man wrings his wrists together and backs up. “You must understand—So much has led to this day, yes! So much planning and maneuvering! And now you’re _here—_It’s as if the stars themselves have aligned!”

Neither of the Dark Brotherhood members respond. Amaund takes a deep breath and pats down his clothes and frazzled hair. “But I digress, of course, of course. Here, let me give you these—they are to be delivered to your superior. Err—Rexus! The items!” A sealed letter and amulet passes from the bodyguard’s hands to Veezara’s as Amaund continues rambling, “The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done—And—The amulet is quite valuable, more so than either of your lives, truly—It will pay for any all expenses!”

“We’ll be in touch.” The Listener doesn’t care to stick around. Dust seeps through her mask and she fights the urge to sneeze while she and Veezara backtrack out of the ancient tomb. She climbs unto Velvet’s saddle and holds a hand out for Veezara. As the two ride out and away from Volunruud, the Listener glances over her shoulders. “We’re going to need an appraiser for that, aren’t we?”

“You mentioned things in Riften went strangely. Thieves Guild?” Veezara picks up on her hesitation. “Ah. I can only wonder how your temper fared with Mercer Frey.”

“Astrid dislikes him for good reason.” The Listener exhales. “Brynjolf is acceptable. I’d do anything for Vex’s beautiful looks. ”

She has memories of romancing both thieves in multiple modded playthroughs. Her heart has a soft spot for the way his voice-actor says the word ‘lass.’ Given the information and knowledge of such would only serve to confuse Veezara, she keeps it all to herself behind a smile.

“If we ride through the wild lands—It will cut our return trip by a quarter,” Veezara’s hands grip her waist while Velvet gallops forward. “A consideration, Kara.”

The Listener’s eyes dim. “Yes, but—The noise at night—It’s too dangerous! And Velvet’s stamina won’t last forever, we need her to have energy almost as much as we need it ourselves.”

“The road will draw the eye of bandits.” Veezara warns.

“Since when does the Dark Brotherhood fear _bandits_?”

_They don’t, _she smiles at Veezara’s lack of response. A shadow passing overhead causes Velvet to rear and whine in fear. The Listener is nearly thrown from the horse as she gasps and looks at the sky. _But we fear—_

_“Dragon!”_ Veezara calls as a second roar sends a shockwave through the trees lining the road.

A dragon with golden-brown scales and a long, wide tail circles overhead. The Listener tries to squeeze Velvet’s belly with her thighs and get her galloping again but the horse is terrified and refuses to budge. She dismounts and Veezara follows suit. The Argonian starts for the thickets; the Listener ignores him and pulls on Velvet’s reins to encourage her forward.

A third roar signals the incoming fighter’s arrival and Kara braces herself as the beaked-reptillian’s mouth comes crashing into the earth with the rest of it’s body. She holds her breath and stares the revered dragon in the eye as it sneers and taunts, _“Dir ko maar!”_

The beasts mouth snaps at her and she throws herself to the side. Her brain scrambles and for a moment she is nothing more than a shaking, trembling mess in shrouded armor. The lack of pain registers and she tears herself from the ground and storms the other direction. Her bow hangs heavy until she unclips it from her back and notches a glass arrow into it. When she looks back her heart drops in horror and rage floods her veins. The beautiful mare who faithfully served her for so long thrashes and shakes before stilling in the jaws of the beast. The revered dragon snaps Velvet in two and drops the animal’s corpse to the ground.

_It wasn’t aiming for me. It was aiming for her. It knows she was our way out. _Kara’s body trembles as she takes aims. The revered dragon looks up and blasts a gale of purple magic at her.

_“Gaan lah haas!”_ The shout is familiar but she can’t remember the translation.

The Dragonborn doesn’t have time to dwell on it; she loosens her arrow and braces herself as the purple shout rips through her body. She is thrown backward and hits the ground hard; her eyes see stars and for a moment she envisions not the sky of _Skyrim, _but the violent eyes of a mad man and the fists aimed at her. In the vision she tries to get up and roll away but another powerful force of syllables she can’t understand nails her back to the ground. She growls in response and screams a shot of her own, “_fus ro!”_

It gets her back into the realm of _Skyrim _and out of her head. The revered dragon shouts in disbelief as it leaps into the air and circles. _“Dovahkiin!”_

“Listener—_Kara,_” Veezara yells from across the road. His Daedric daggers are out and ready but she shakes her head and turns to stare the circling dragon down.

_“Go!_ It wants the glory of a Dragonborn’s death!” Kara orders, a Bend Will shout on the tip of her tongue if the man doesn’t comply. The Argonian nods in understanding and flees. She notches a fresh glass arrow and runs into the middle of the road. She heads up the road in the opposite direction of Veezara and breathes in relief when the _dov _follows her.

_“Gaan lah haas!”_ The dragon roars another projectile of purple mist from its mouth.

Kara grits her teeth and sounds the same shout back as a greeting, _“Gaan lah haas!”_

She doesn’t know what it does, but the dragon is engulfed in purple magic that flows off it like smoke. It screams words she doesn’t recall in dragon speech and circles overhead. She has the opening to take a shot and she pours three glass arrows into the beast before she weaves out of the way of it’s breath magic. An opposing _fus ro dah _rips the area she was just standing; it causes her to trip and rolls from the momentum. She pulls herself to her feet. Her tongue tastes blood on her lips and though she considers trying to summon the Lord of Debauchery for aid, she fights the temptation and summons a fire Atronach. The allied Daedra leaps through the air and launches a volley of fireballs at the dragon while Kara surges into the treeline and dives into thick shrubbery.

Her heart pings with guilt when she hears the explosion of the atronach’s demise. The angered roar that accompanies it provides little satisfaction. She counts her arrows: sixteen glass, two ebony. She curses internally and draws a vial of poison from her belt loops. She dumps it crudely over three arrowheads and notches one of the poisoned arrows into her bow. She keeps it steady but doesn’t emerge from her hiding place. To her relief—and anger-induced lust for blood—she hears first the dragon circling overhead, then the sounds of it receding as the flaps of its wings fade into the distance.

_“Laas.”_ She whispers the _dov _word of life. The dragon’s red aura flashes in her vision before it disappears. Kara’s shoulders slump. _Poison wasted for nothing. _

She stands and an arrow whizzes past her head. She turns on her heels and growls as the red auras of six different people jump into her sight. She takes off running with her bow raised and shoots an arrow; it nails one bandit in the head and he drops to the ground in screams of agony before departing for the Void. Two arrows hit the ground behind her as she dives and rolls into sparse cover of trees. She grabs her daggers, waits, and whispers _laas _a second time to narrow the remaining five souls down. Only four come into view but it’s enough for her _dov _to scream in triumph as her blades arc through the air at two of them.

A lady in fur armor drops after the enchanted blade decapitates her. A man in chainmail clutches and wails at the dagger in his eye. She shouts _fus _at him to drive it through his skull, it’s a satisfactory send-off for an offering to Sithis.

Breath is crushed out of her as a hammer slams into her back and forces her to the ground. She attempts to twist and whip to face the coward; the action sends both individuals rolling and fighting to pin and maim the other into submission. Her _dov _shakes in her blood as she winds up on top with her leg hooked around the other’s neck and her thighs squeezing the young man in a chokehold. She reaches for a dagger strapped to her arm and stabs his neck over and over until sanguine-red liquid coats the blade and seeps through her gloves. She pants and pushes his corpse away.

A hand grabs her from behind and clamps over her mouth. She hisses and bites the fingers which provokes a feminine yell, but the assailant doesn’t release. Something hard _crashes _into the back of her skull and she writhes and kicks at them to not avail. A dagger cuts through her torso armor and her blood boils in fury as a slab of the beloved shrouded armor falls from her abdomen. Another blade cuts through the end of her blouse and reveals the melding of black Dremora tissue to her skin. A blindfold goes over her eyes and a knife punctures her hand when she struggles in the losing fight. Her body stiffens after several seconds. Kara freezes at an alien chill that invades her bones and forces her limbs to lock. The hand over her mouth leaves but a gag is introduced and wound tightly around her head.

“Keep her alive.” A man grunts. “Thalmor want her intact for questioning. Said they’d give a bonus.”

“Why would I kill a Dragonborn that’s worth more alive than _dead_, Ragh?” The feminine voice from before huffs and kicks Kara to the ground. She can’t move; air barely manages to be inhaled as she breathes through her nose in shallow, short breaths. “We don’t want her pretty face fucked too soon.”

She’s picked up and her eyes water. The gag tastes putrid in her mouth and she finds her _dov _screaming at her to fight harder.

“Bitch fucked with my hands, though.” The feminine voice carries on. “I have half the mind to cut her fingers off one-by-one.”

“Save it, Cadha.” She assumes ‘Ragh’ is the one speaking.

Regardless, strong arms pick her up and throw her over someone’s shoulder. She’s not bound; she knows the paralysis poison at work is most likely the reason. She doesn’t know how far she’s carried, but at one point hands chuck her into the back of a cart. This time an assailant picks up metal and Kara feels the cuffs forced unto her wrists. Her _dov _rampages violently across her soul. The cart starts to move and raucous laughter drifts through the area. There's horses flanking the wagon. 

_Anti-magic. _She struggles to remain calm and not vomit. She hears a gasp near her; it’s familiar but not enough to pinpoint until the voice is close and a scaly form nudges her paralyzed body.

“Listener,” Veezara speaks just above a whisper.

Her head aches and she fights tears. She feels embarrassingly helpless at that moment. Whoever the bandits are—they know precisely how to debilitate her. Her magicka is cut off, her thu’um blocked, and even her sight lays shrouded by the blindfold.

_But who knows that much about me to do this? _She thinks. Without the ability to see or move she can’t communicate to Veezara, not even through subtle body language.

“There’s a larger group of them.” Her fellow Brotherhood member fills her in as softly as he can. “They were waiting for the dragon to leave. Twenty, minimum. Fur and chain armor but the leader’s in plate. I don’t know their camp." 

She wishes she could nod. She feels Veezara’s form move away and the cart ride steadily becomes more and more distant to her poisoned mind. How far along the cart moves and the sounds of the outside world are lost on her; she feels herself border the brink of unconsciousness but never truly gets there. Her vision is dark most of the time but on occasion she sees faint glimpses of familiar décor trashed and thrown out of place from some larger force. Kara floats aimlessly in the thoughts and pictures until, at a point of time unknown to her, she feels the wagon creak to a stop. Shouts enter her ears all around the cart.

“Keep her steady—gag stays on unless I say otherwise!” Someone roars. At least six individuals grunt in acknowledgement and the Dragonborn is picked up like a sack of potatoes and dragged away. She doesn’t struggle but her mind screams for Veezara to _live_ and run.

She’s taken somewhere where the smell of rotting wood and no hygiene pushes into her nostrils. Chatter in the background filters through her ears aimlessly; the stimuli is overwhelming, and her weary mind can’t handle it. Her body viscerally reacts when she’s thrown to a stone floor. She feels her nose squish in a way that’s not normal and she feels blood begin to run from it, dousing her jaw and broken armor. It sticks to her body and douses her senses with a metallic aroma. With feeling and control returning to her bodym she manages to sit up in time to feel a heavy door _slam _shut in front of her. Her heart pounds in her ears. _I need to stay calm. I need to stay calm. I need to stay calm. _

Her mind slips away.

She comes to in a dissociated state. Her vision remains dark and she struggles to breathe. Distinctly, she inhales whiffs of alto wine and juniper-flavored mead. Her thoughts drift sluggishly with the sounds of laughter, jokes, and shouts. The revelry is infectious, but it makes no sense to her; she can’t understand the syllables spoken or words sung. Things feel out of place and something in her body crawls beneath her skin uncomfortably.

_What do you want, Kara? _She asks herself.

Her mind answers. _I want to live. _

“Then live.” Her memory, in Sanguine’s voice, speaks.

The Myriad Realms fade from her senses and she comes to thrashing against the gag in her mouth and cuffs on her wrists. She feels the anti-magic cuffs pierce her skin and cause trickles of blood to trail off her fingers. Kara’s _dov _throws itself against her mind and screams until Kara acknowledges it. Her back finds a wall and she forces deep breaths in and out of her nose. _If the Thalmor catch me I die. These bandits want to sell me to them? Disgusting._

The Dremora tissue in her body burns in agreement. She pauses at the sensation. _That’s his, isn’t it? Sanguine’s magic. Power. If it returned to him—he’d notice, surely. Right? Could I… _

It’s not guaranteed to work but she bets on it anyways. She hushes her _dov _spirit and directs her thoughts to the tissue keeping her physical form alive. Sanguine’s magic is lethal and it comes at a cost; though the magic keeps her life intact she feels the alien nature of Oblivion’s presence crawl beneath her skin. She coaxes it gently with her mind and probes the foreign feeling until it reacts in vitriol rage. The tissue _hurts _and claws at pain receptors in her body. She doubles over but pleads silently for it to cooperate lest they both wind up in a Thalmor’s torture basement.

The Dremora tissue resentfully agrees. Kara sends it the thoughts and feelings of her own anger, the emotions directed at the captors. In her mind they are all ‘Cadha’ or ‘Ragh,’ and both those two names mean nothing to her but souls bound for Sithis. She projects her will unto the Daedric magic and focuses on reversing it. It’s stubborn, but it budges and the wound in her abdomen erupts in a waterfall of crimson liquid. Her head becomes light and her cuffed hands shake in shock. _So close… So close. _

Her _dov _catches on to her plan. It doesn’t approve but it holds itself back so the Daedric magic can return to its sanguine-form. The magic dissipates in clouds of what she likes to believe is great red, returning to its sender and vanishing from the plane of Mundus. Though the Daedric magic bound to her arm remains, her abdomen sloshes open and pours blood in a puddle. It doesn’t attract the attention of guards; she can’t hear footsteps or shouts of alarm. It tells her one thing: she’s worth a fair chunk dead just as she is alive. _Or these… incompetent fools. Ignorant. _

_“Kara.”_

A magical presence fills the room as a figure forms from magic she envisions as purple. The presence is aggravated and she agrees with him wholeheartedly.

“How in Oblivion do you wind up in these messes?” The cuffs are picked off her wrists and she relaxes as magicka dumps back into her veins. She grabs for the gag and struggles to tear it off. A gauntlet rips the damn thing in half, followed by the blindfold.

For once in what feels like _forever_—if ever—she is happy to see the face of a pissed off Daedric Prince. Sanguine’s eyes are dark and deadly and could easily turn the intestines of all living creatures in a mile radius into wine and she wouldn’t give two shits.

_“Help,”_ Kara grits her teeth and gestures to her abdomen with bloodied hands. "Dying!"

It’s the part of the plan she wasn’t looking forward to. The women bites through her own arm guard to muffle the screams while Sanguine casts Daedric magic into her gushing wound. She shivers and exhales in pain for a long minute after the magic sets in and solidifies into Dremora tissue. When the pain relents, she cries tears of joy both at the relief that comes and at the joy she feels toward what is perhaps the _only_ Daedric Prince that will ever hang off her keyring when she goes to work for eight bucks an hour. She half-collapses against him and shudders at the heat his body gives off. If he makes any remarks, she tunes them out and ignores the looks she knows she receives. 

“Kara,” Sanguine’s voice returns to it’s pleasant tone but she hears the dissatisfaction behind it. “Whatever you did—”

“Don’t do it again, I know, I know, _Gods_,” The Dragonborn rambles. “Don’t be such a _killjoy_, Sanguine.”

He’s not amused. Maybe he is. She can’t tell through the stars in her eyes and the dizziness looming in her head. Even with Dremora tissue—the blood loss is evident across the cell floor and she still has to worry about removing herself from her host’s charming accommodations. She feels her belt for potions and her back for a bow but finds nothing. At some point—her gear was stripped, leaving only the damaged shrouded leathers over her tunics. Her chest piece and part of her blouse are torn deliberately in ways to expose the location of her now-closed abdominal wound.

She looks up at Sanguine and exhales. “They know—I think it’s Thalmor. I missed a kill in Riften.”

“Better than the Daedric Princes,” is all the Daedric Prince says in response. He eyes the cell bars and walks to them. They bend effortlessly in his hand but, for a brief moment, runes pop up along the sides of the bars.

“Bandits. Mid-level ones but they come as a pack.” The Dragonborn says as she follows him out. She scans up and down the halls. They’re in an old remains of what could possibly have once been a fortress or prison, with partial renovations as necessary to keep people like her trapped. The current chamber is a massive room with stacks of cells framing both sides of a central walkway. Kara grits her teeth at the sight of a bloated corpse left chained to one cell wall. “Christ.”

“Don’t know the guy,” Sanguine interjects. He stops before the doorway and throws an arm out to keep Kara from moving on.

It doesn’t keep her from whispering a thu’um of _laas. _In her vision red spots pop up and linger for several seconds in adjacent rooms, halls, and the upper and lower levels of the prison. She growls under her breath. “I should have hunted down a Detect Life spell tome. I can’t make heads or tails of which signature is Veezara.”

“You’ve been making friends.”

“A lot has changed since we first met,” the Dragonborn’s brows furrow. She glances at the Daedric Prince and hesitates. “Do you have your Daedric dagger on you? Don’t bullshit me—I know you carry one—I’ve seen you use it in my past lives.”

She snatches it up the second Sanguine flashes the dagger to prove he has it. Though he could probably stop her with a bit of effort, the Daedra appears amused by her antics and he chuckles. “We need to hang out more often. You, me, a bottle of booze—it’d be a good time, admit it.”

“There’s an Argonian somewhere in this structure and if they touch a _single_ scale on his head my _dov _will burn this place to the ground and gut the pigs one-by-one.” Is Kara’s polite reply. Her fangs are visible, and she growls out another, _“Laas.” _The auras of moving enemies leaps into her vision and she studies the pattern and their approximate position.

“That sounds hot.” Sanguine moves to the side to let the Dragonborn stride forward.

The initial cell chambers connect to short corridor; the corridor opens into a grand entrance hall with stairs leading to a second floor and doors breaking off into what she assumes are separate cell ‘wings’ to her own. She rubs her sore wrists and glances at the Daedric Prince nearby. “Can’t you teleport us to him or him to us? I _need _to get to him—”

“I don’t think my magic works like that.” Sanguine says cheerfully.

Kara’s knuckles turn white from how hard her hands clench the Daedric dagger’s handle. For a moment her _dov _dominates her mind; she grabs his breastplate and pulls him to her eye level. _“Gol hah.”_

“Your shouts don’t work on me—It’s rude to bend the wills of others, anyways,” Sanguine‘s eyes narrow. He reaches for Kara’s hand and takes it off him. “You need to _calm down, _dovahkiin.” The sentence is for her _dov _but Kara feels insulted all the same, as if her rage isn’t justified. “I’m not letting you get yourself killed.”

“Pretty certain you can’t stop me,” Kara's _dov_ seethes in anger. “I found a way to reverse your damn healing bullshit.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll make sure to fix that little loophole.” Sanguine picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. He begins to walk down another corridor; she stops struggling after a second when her _dov _realizes it’s a losing battle. Sanguine sidesteps into an empty storage room and dumps Kara on the ground. He snaps a finger and the door to the room slowly slides shut, lock clicking in place. He turns to face her and crosses his arms with a cocky smile. “Okay. Let’s have a chat, Kara. That includes Kara-dov.”

“I need to get to _Veezara!_” She practically screams the name when she leaps to her feet. “Sanguine!”

“You need to have some faith in the folks you hang with, Kara.” The Daedric Prince waves off her pleas and begging. “Let’s start with what I wanna know. How did this happen? Run it by me again.”

Her _dov _does not like him! Not at all! She wants to stomp her feet and rip through bodies, but the bloody Prince is too strong for raw draconic strength to overpower. The woman’s _dov _spirit relinquishes control to the Dragonborn.

“Assassin job was booked last-second and contracted out to me. In Riften—Fuck, that reminds me, I need to talk to _you _about the Blades storyline,” Kara clutches at her head and grits her teeth. “It won’t make total sense to you. I don’t care. I think—I think parts of this world are being triggered without my assistance, Sanguine. _Laas!_” She notes the changes in guard positions; none have made rounds to her wing. Alarm isn’t raise. “A different contract, in Riften, I was in the Ratways and fucking _Thalmor _tried to take Esbern into custody.”

“The wrinkly old grape? The time you almost died for a _grape?_”

“That’s the one,” She mumbles. “That whole event—It shouldn’t have happened _yet_, I didn’t trigger the prior quests! I needed to get Delphine to give me a horn and—I needed to infiltrate a Thalmor embassy and steal dossiers and those documents would’ve given cause for Delphine to send me running all the way to Riften and the Ratways for Mister Grape!” The woman’s shoulders slump. Her head pounds with pain.

“Consumers have way too much to do.” Is all Sanguine offers.

The Listener growls, not of _dov _but of a pissed off twenty-nine-year-old. “I’m trying to get some advice, you Lord of Uselessness! Things in this world are happening without the influence of any consumers! I’m not triggering events! Which means things might just continue to happen without my involvement! The world’s changing faster than I can keep up and I don’t know what that means for _Alduin.”_ She breathes the name of the World Eater with the respect her _dov _spirit demands of her.

“Well,” the Daedric Prince considers. “It’ll liven things up, for sure. Give me and my Dremora a sight to see—but it doesn’t answer my question.”

“A Thalmor must’ve lived. Either that—Or someone saw the lot of us leave Riften—Or—I don’t know. But the Thalmor have a bounty on my head,” The Dragonborn begins tearing apart the storage room for anything that might help: intact armor, lockpicks, potions… There’s nothing. She growls in frustration and adds. “Dead or alive. Alive must fetch a bonus if they’ve gone through all this trouble. I wonder if Astrid thinks Veezara and I abandoned the sanctuary and Brotherhood.”

The Daedric dagger in her hand makes her want to stab. She wants to _stab, stab, stab _like her dear jester! Stab, stab, _stab _until everything’s red and her _dov _sings in approval! _Stab, stab, and stab! Stab, stab, stab! _She wants to vent the frustration in rivers of sanguine and songs of the dying.

“I forget you’re part of the Sithis’ gang sometimes.” Sanguine comments as he watches her.

She stops miming the act of—_slitting throats, filleting bellies, poking out eyes—_and sighs. “If I asked Astrid more questions about why she became a killer, or if another consumer did and you were with them—The lady tells you she was initiated in the whole business of murder when her uncle made unwanted advances toward her as a young woman. And honestly—That’s something I related to.”

“Your husband.”

“I wouldn’t mind staying in this world forever,” she confesses in a whisper. Her hands drop to her side but the Daedric blade remains gripped tightly as before. “If I knew he couldn’t reach me here—I could live here as the Listener, the Dragonborn, as _Kara._ I could have the family and company of my Dark Brotherhood, the blessing of the Night Mother, and the title of ‘Alduin-Slayer’ on my back wherever I go. It would be nice. I wouldn’t even mind if _you_ stopped by time-to-time.” It’s a genuine sentiment, she acknowledges. She doesn’t mind the Prince’s presence or remarks like she did the first months of their questionable friendship.

There’s other things she imagines the two could talk about. She has thoughts on her thu’um and the ability to shout despite the lack of dragon souls obtained. She has a theory on Malkus Vile and Barnabas, and on how the Daedric Prince’s choice to bring Barnabas to life relates to her relationship with Sanguine’s magic. The latter she _desperately _needs to address with the Daedric Prince eventually, but she holds her tongue and strips herself of her broken leather. An idea bleeds into her mind and she intends to follow it through.

“Right _here_? Kara, you pick the worst spots to fuck—”

“Shush and keep your Daedric armor on! _Laas,”_ The Listener states. She doesn’t look up beyond checking the red auras of life in the surrounding area.

Her hands work tediously to cut the remains of her armor into strips. Her heart hurts at the thought of slicing through Gabriella’s meticulous stitching and handiwork but she imagines the dunmer would approve of it given the situation. She binds the strips of leather at her joints: elbows, wrists, hips, knees, ankles. The woman ties frayed ends of her blouse to a strip of leather that encircles her waist. She pulls the strip tight enough to clench her skin and exhales sharply. _I need to move faster. If I can at least find where they stashed our gear… Veezara should’ve brought the invisibility potion. That’ll get one of us out. And then… _

_It would be easier to kill them all._ At least—her _dov _suggests such. She considers the thought as the Daedric dagger runs through her long locks of hair. She slices the hair off and leaves a jagged, uneven but _short _length behind, not reaching past the nape of her neck.

“Sanguine,” The Listener turns to him. She must look absurd, as the Daedric Prince snorts in response. “I need you to go.”

“What in Oblivion are you thinking, Kara?” The Prince waves at the ensemble she wears.

“In _my _world—I read it in a book. The rustling of clothes makes noise. You either wear a skin-tight outfit—which my armor would’ve been if I wasn’t wearing clothes underneath or, well, if these bandits didn’t rip it apart to admire your handiwork.” The Listener glances at her bare abdomen. The combination of her blouse ensnaring the leather strip on her waist obscures part of the healed wound, but the obsidian-Dremora tissue screams against the rest of her skin. “My armor was ruined anyways—I’ll take my chances without it.”

“You cut it into tiny strips.”

“I need the advantage to my stealth! I can’t stay locked in an empty storage room forever.” Kara frowns and peers at him. “You can’t stay here forever, either. They’ll look for me and they’ll find us. I need to start moving before the alarm’s raised or they might use Veezara as a hostage.”

“His soul—”

“Is worth as much to me as it should be to you.” The Listener hums and plays into the attitude of her _dov._ “If he dies because you didn’t let me _try _to break him out—I’m joining the Companions and initiating a pact with _Hircine._”

The words strike a nerve; she spies Sanguine’s form tense. For a Lord of Debauchery, Revelry, and Hedonism, she’s begun to get a fair read on him and the way he thinks. She knows he knows her desires—but she knows her own value and worth. He’s made _investments _in keeping her alive and fending off rival Princes. He doesn’t want her dead. Perhaps the latter is the most exploitable point in the two’s interactions; just as she relies on him for _laas_, he’s revealed a dangerously soft link in the chain of Daedra that is Sanguine. She’s not a capitalist, but she’ll monopolize on it if it means Veezara makes it out alive.

“Kara.” His growl makes her _dov _spirit snicker. “You’re threatening a Daedric Prince.”

“It’s a dangerous game,” The Dragonborn snaps back. “But we’re playing it.”

_“Don’t die.”_ Is all the Daedra Lord warns before his manifestation disappears in a flurry of violet magic.

“Laas.” She repeats the shout of Aura Whisper and furrows her brows at the approach of two guards to the wing of the prison she and Sanguine left prior. She casts Muffle on herself to further hide the sound of her steps before she exits the storage room. The Daedric dagger feels good in her hands; when it cuts into the soft flesh of a throat for the first time, both the blade and her _dov _hum in pleasure.


	17. the liar, the lost, and the leech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the listener leaves the prison in ruin and rallies three new souls under the banner of sithis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey... this chapter is a bit darker than normal 
> 
> just a heads up

She wonders if she’s still twenty-nine. Though she’s died multiple times up to that moment, she’s lived many months as _Kara II_. She’s seen a summer pass, autumnal leaves snake through forests, and felt the snow of the Pale on her shoulders. She doesn’t remember the day of her _other world _birth but she decides that the end of winter is a suitable time, the day itself to be determined. Her mind drifts to the thought of _cake _and its equivalent in Skyrim: would it be a sweet roll big enough to shove her face into. Could it be a collection of tiny rolls glued together by icing and crumbs? Her mouth waters at the possibilities while another corpse drops to the floor in front of her.

_“Laas.”_ She confirms the kill when no aura pops into her vision. _Mindful of Babette’s words. I must be mindful of Babette’s words. _

The Dragonborn’s counted nineteen stranger’s necks so far. Her _dov _sing her forward and the Daedric Blade cheers silently for her hands to continue as she moves on from body nineteen and walks calmly to the cowering man that will be body twenty. He’s a young man no older than nineteen or twenty and he won’t get any older after she’s through, but for a second the lady stops and turns her dagger over in hand. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Wh—What?” The bandit’s cheeks streak with tears.

He’s too young, she knows, too young to die, but Sithis demands it and his lack of answer annoys her. She grabs him by the shirt and runs the Daedric dagger into his chest. It meets no resistance and though the man flails in her grip he soon stills. She shuts his eyes, offers an apology, and continues in search of body number twenty-one.

Maybe she can kidnap a baker from Solitude. The Imperial city has a collection of fascinating vendors, or at least it should if her past playthroughs can be trusted. She doesn’t know how much or how fast the world changes around her, but her consuming nature doesn’t happen overnight. The storylines of the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves Guild and Blades and all those other lovely bumpkins are all jumping or skipping at their own pace. She can’t keep up; she only hopes that enough lingers and trails behind the skips for her to assess where the nearest bakery is and whom she can make a permanent chef in the Dark Brotherhood’s sanctuary.

_Unless, _Kara’s mouth drops open. “Nazir! He must know about cakes! He can cook, that’s practically the same as baking?”

She says it all as future body twenty-one lurches from the darkness. The Listener side-steps the fool and whispers _gol hah. _The Bend Will shout wraps around the man and she calmly directs him to a torture rack. The man climbs into it without protest and she hums under breath as shackles snap unto the man’s wrists and ankles, spreading him like a piece of meat on a grill. She steps back and waves goodbye before exiting the prison wing and reemerging in the prison’s lowest level. The man will die in his own time and it will be a lonely, lonely passing if the rats don’t find him first; the Daedric dagger and her _dov _may not agree with the merciful death but they don’t hold it against her after she _stab, stab, stabs _the next two guards. One doesn’t die right away, and the woman angrily fillets his neck until his soul is sent to the Void.

_Would Babette know about making candles? Or—I could buy some in Riverwood? Veezara will be bewildered by our stops on the way back to Falkreath. If this prison is even in Falkreath. Near Falkreath. Near Helgen? We traveled in the cart for many hours. _She doesn’t know where she is, admittedly, beyond stuck in an old structure with multiple levels and an astonishing number of cells. Part of her questions why it was built. _Perhaps the Great War? Was that when the high elves attacked? Or… Hmm. Would Sanguine know?_

She finds a set of stairs to the basement and trots down them with silent footsteps. Her short hair bounces haphazardly as she stops and hears the sound of crying. Her eyes narrow and the Daedric dagger pleads for more in her ears; the blade nigh-vibrates in her grasp as she comes upon the source of the sound. It’s an awful scene.

Her and Veezara are not the only ones the bandits have sought in the past. It’s an organized operation; there are heaps of bodies on the side and most of them look like civilians. Her _dov _takes advantage of the sight to let out an inhumane scream of fury and drop any hint of stealth. She charges the two guards while they scurry to their feet and hastily grab longswords and shields. The Listener plays their game at first—she dives, ducks, and weaves around them in a sinister dance that makes her sinfully aware how much she misses Cicero—but her _dov _gets impatient and the Daedric Dagger pierces one bandit’s arm. The woman howls in pain as the Listener rips the dagger out and throws the woman backward with a kick to her chestplate. The Dragonborn whirls and shouts _fus _at the sword-swinging bandit creeping behind her.

In Kara’s head she envisions delicious sweet rolls with orange-cream cheese frosting and swirls of cinnamon across the yellow sponge cake. Her mouth waters and her _dov_ jumps unto the second bandit with a snarl. The sanguine red liquid that comes from the bandit’s eyes and ears and mouth and tongue fuels her dragon’s blood lust. Her hands and arms bulge with veins pumping the mortal blood of a _dov_ as her dragon spirit directs Kara to find a grasp on the man’s collarbone and _pull_. Flesh and screams mix as Kara reels back and the bandit drops dead. She wipes her mouth free of drool and looks overhead where the first bandit’s backed into a wall.

“Did they scream like this? Those weak, feeble humans? The helpless elves? _Gal hoh, _answer me!” The _dov _orders.

“Yes.” The bandit’s body is stiff.

_“Pahlok joorre,_ weak, all of you!” the _dov _hisses with Kara's voice. _“Gaan lah haas.” _

The _dov _finds it fitting but the Daedric dagger does not, for the shout used is _Drain Vitality _and the purple magic explodes around the bandit’s body, sucking every bit from the woman. It does not stop there; the _dov _shouts it again and again and again. The dragon spirit finds the death of a person who dared try to cage her a reminder of how the mortal body ensnares the spirit’s wings. The _dov _roars when at last the bandit is but a withered, dead husk of a human. Only then does the _dov _relinquish the body to Kara; she grabs her chest with one hand and the Daedric dagger in the other while her _dov _snarls from within their conjoined spirit.

The woman finds the basement floor silent, but she is not alone. She turns and spies a row of cells against the far wall. Three have terrified prisoners in them. Veezara silently stares at her from the cell at the end of the wall, left-hand side. She walks up to the cellblock but the prisoners—Veezara excluded—shriek, scream, and babble. One has eyes as dark as the sky.

_Vampire, _Kara notes. The Listener strides to Veezara’s cage and messes with the lock. It doesn’t budge, and she doubts the manacles on Veezara’s ankles and wrists will, either. “This place is thorough.”

“Listener.” Veezara breathes the word and it breaks her heart to know it is _fearful. _“What—”

“Dragonborn possess the soul of a _dov_. I don’t know if having two souls conjoined is the normal, but,” the woman strides to the corpses of two guards and fishes for their keys. She wipes the keys free of blood and returns to Veezara’s cell, struggling a moment before finding the correct key and popping the lock open. “I shouldn’t describe it like that. Maybe it _is _me, if I were a _dov_. Which I guess I am _now—_Hold still.”

She gently frees the Argonian’s wrists, then his ankles. He rubs his wrists and nods at her in thanks. “...Your temper needs work.”

“It does. I'd hoped we could work on it tonight—But—I don’t know if it is tonight, even, or the same day. I don’t.” She looks away. Her eyes lock with the gaze of the vampire prisoner and the Dragonborn pauses. “…Should we free them?”

“Please don’t hurt us,” an unusually young man begs in a whisper. He’s thin, emaciated, and could be killed by a faint breeze if she had to guess. His eyes are sunken in his skull and his lips dry and chapped. “Please. _Please._”

“If we leave them, they die.” Veezara states. “If we take them—they may still die. But they will lag behind us and delay our return.”

The Listener feels the Argonian’s tail brush her leg as he walks past. He’s been stripped of armor since the two were separated, and his prisoner’s garb is unbefitting a Shadowscale. She watches him loot a guard’s fur armor. He looks back at her after he dresses. “Did you find our equipment?”

“Not yet.”

“How did you get out?” Veezara’s yellow eyes linger on her.

She shakes her head. “Daedric Prince sorcery. Almost died. Again. We need to move—I lost count of the corpses after twenty but there’s going to be more outside, guaranteed. I doubt a place this big doesn’t have men posted on the perimeter or outside walls.”

“Take us with you. Please! Dragonborn!” A wrinkled man with one arm shouts at her. His face is marred in scars. “By Talos himself—_I will do anything in your name!”_

“Vampire. What were they doing with you?” She ignores the elderly man a moment to approach the vampire’s cell.

The vampire smiles a toothy smile, full of fangs and sad amusement. “They wanted to sell me to the Dawnguard.”

_So the D-L-C’s exist in this world. If Miraak appears… No. Let’s not think that way. I’ll avoid Whiterun and not trigger the cultists and… _Kara clenches her eyes shut and exhales. _Calm. Calm. Calm. _

“The Dawnguard: when were they supposed to arrive?” Kara tilts her head to one side. She feels Veezara join her a moment later; he hands her a set of light leather armor taken from the dead woman bandit her _dov _fried. “Honest answers.”

“Tomorrow.” The vampire hisses.

“What would they do to you? Enlighten me,” she calmly ducks behind Veezara and strips off leather binding her blouse to her skin. The leather armor goes over her head and she emerges with a breastplate and arm guards equipped, though still in her initial breeches. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard of them.”

“They are a group of vampire hunters. They seek the undeath of us and vow to spike us with the sun. And they do it willingly,” the vampire’s wince does not go unnoticed. “They will not make it quick. They will draw it out, siphon all the information they can of me, and force me to beg for death, to submit to the sun.”

“It may be daylight out. Will you be hindered?”

The vampire’s face falls at the mention of the day, but the undeath woman nods.

“And the rest of you—You are not in shape to move across large distances, or to fight if a _dov _falls from the sky.” The Listener tells both men. “Why free you?”

“Because we will die if you won’t.” The vampire answers for all three. The undeath woman’s dark eyes are dangerous—but not as much as Sanguine’s—and she stares and meets the Listener’s gaze without fear.

It’s a trait she admires. The Dragonborn seeks out Veezara’s gaze for approval and, at his nod, begins to unlock first cells and then the manacles of each individual. The emaciated young man introduces himself as a Redguard named Filre Donovan, a refugee that sought solace in Whiterun but was turned away and forced to wander the wilderness before being picked up.

“I said I was the son of a noble,” Filre sobs when he’s offered a waterskin found on one guard’s body. “I had to! They would’ve killed me! Skinned me like rabbit! They said they had no use of me if not money!”

“Leorn Stillshine! At your service!” The wrinkled old man is a deserter of the Stormcloak army. He’s a Nord with a soft white beard and observant, diligent eyes. He’s missing teeth when he smiles at Kara unlocking him but it’s a sign of pride. The woman hands him a breastplate and helps clasp it on his back. Leorn gives her a one-armed thumbs up and she feels better about the decision already.

The last of the three prisoners is the vampire. Kara hesitates as she approaches the woman.

The vampire shuts her eyes and tells her, “If you choose not to take a creature like me along… I won't blame you. But I ask you stake me instead if you intend to abandon me. Give me a death I don’t fear.”

“Molag Bal is said to have made the first vampires. Will you go to his plane when you die?” The Listener frowns.

“No, I didn't ask for this.” The undeath lady exhales. It’s strange to hear coming from a creature that doesn’t need to breathe but the Listener stays quiet and allows the vampire to continue. “I was drugged at a party. Taken away. A person I loved turned out to be one of the bloodsuckers stalking my town. She sired me but dumped me in the streets when I refused to comply with her demands.”

It’s not the same story but the similarities give the Listener the resolve she needs to unlock the manacles. She starts with the ankles and rises to the wrists. She meets the vampire’s eyes as she does so, “What do you need to travel under the sun?”

“Enchanted armor will fend off the harsh rays for a time. But I do not know if such equipment exists here. These bandits are numerous—but I never saw them wearing items with the glow of purple enchantments swirling across the surface.” The vampire looks at the Listener and pauses. “—Thank you. Dragonborn. I am indebted to you, always.”

“What is your name?” Veezara asks from behind the Listener.

“I’ve gone by Alysoin for many years,” the woman replies. She runs a hand through messy black bangs. “If you struggle to say it—Call me Abigail.”

“Alysoin. We will remember it. You, Leorn, Filre… We are going to take you somewhere. It is,” the Listener inhales and commits to the promise. “…A place you will be safe. The safest sanctuary in all of Skyrim.”

Veezara stiffens nearby.

“Really!?” Filre’s voice fills with enthusiasm and he stares at the Listener.

“I am known as the Listener,” the Listener nods at all three. She gestures to Veezara and catches his amused smile. “This is Veezara. We are followers of Sithis, the Dread Father, and his bride—our unholy matron, the Night Mother.”

“Dark Brotherhood?” Only Leorn registers the names of their deities. The veteran nods and bows his head. “The Void… it has reached out its hands for us. In mercy… I…”

“Don’t make promises you cannot keep.” Veezara comments.

The Listener turns and walks up the stairs to the next level. She gestures for the four to follow and Veezara does without a word. The two Dark Brotherhood members walk with the silence of the Void’s shadows, but the prisoners display meager skills in stealth. Alysoin is the closest to competent, Leorn struggles and strives to pick up on the art of walking to no avail, and Filre hobbles after the Listener like a puppy to its mother. As they begin to search the prison, the Listener directs Veezara and others to the corpses of bandits who met her Daedric blade in their end. Some are clean kills; others are personally mutilated and arranged in macabre positions.

“How did you get the dagger, Listener?” Veezara asks when the sight of three headless men comes into view.

The Listener stops and looks at the men. She grimaces at the memory of their taunts, their hands on their swords and ungodly threats on their tongues. Her _dov _cleaved the heads off one-by-one and then stacked the skulls on top of another in a bloody abstract art piece. “Daedric Prince sorcery. It may be the only answer you get from me, Veezara, but it is true. I stole it from a Daedra. Really convenient, that one…” She continues to navigate the prison while pretending the three prisoners she just saved aren’t bearing stares into her back.

They find their equipment on the ground level, tucked into a room that formerly belonged to the bandit leader. The leader is bisected vertically. Pieces of broken plate armor litter the ground and Leorn picks up shin guards. The old man holds them to his legs and nods at the fit; Alysoin helps him finds ways to equip them on while Filre supervises.

“She told me her men would put me in my place,” Kara’s voice sizzles with the rage of _dov _and woman alike. Her eyes land on the three ex-prisoners and she snaps. “If any one of you _try _something like that—I’ll make sure your dissection’s a lot slower than hers was.”

“Kara…” Veezara frowns and watches her. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Alysoin—take his armor. It’s enchanted.” The Listener instructs in spite of an Argonian’s protests. Both observe Alysoin bend over and slip the armor on. It’s not a perfect fit but it works; the vampire’s skin is tucked away under the beautiful red-and-black color scheme.

“…Thank you.” Alysoin nods in appreciation.

“If you are spotted in that armor in any of the holds—the guards will attack you on sight. Imperial Army, too, though I don’t know of Stormcloaks.” Kara looks away and shuts her eyes. Her _dov _roars inside her head, reminded of the triumphant encounter with the dead bandit leader. The Listener feels Veezara take her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes it back.

“We’ll be home soon.” He leans and whispers into her ear.

_I hope. _The Listener feels mentally drained. She sucks in a breath and glances at her three rookies, “The three of you are to stay behind Veezara. Anything he tells you—you listen. He says run—you run. He says fight—you fight. He says kill? _You kill._ They’ll kill you if they get the chance; don’t give them the satisfaction.” She assesses each of the former prisoners and passes out weapons suitable for their statures.

Alysoin receives a dagger and shortsword. Leorn gets a battle axe. Though she debates giving Filre anything at all, she pulls a spare ebony blade from her pack and hands it over. His eyes light up and he begins practicing slices and dices with the weapon in the air. The Listener exhales sharply and backs up before Filre guts her on accident; she isn’t taking that risk after the day she’s had.

“What if something happens to you?” Alysoin speaks up quietly after the group has scrapped together armor remains and supplies for five. The vampire has extra iron daggers strapped to the arms and legs of Veezara’s Dark Brotherhood uniform.

“Both of us?” The Listener shrugs. “You’ll probably die.”

“But if we don’t—If we don’t—Where do we go? What do we look for?” She presses the questions desperately.

“West of Falkreath is a door black as the Void. It will tell ask you a question. And you answer…” The Listener smiles faintly. _“Death. _Okay?”

“Will Astrid approve?” Veezara asks softly when the three ex-prisoners have moved to the prison’s main entrance and begun to scout for enemies. The Argonian peers at Kara thoughtfully. “You’re attached to them. It’s worthwhile to consider how you may react if they die.”

“I’ll cry, I think. But I won’t let myself be angry,” the Listener exhales. “And when we’re done… When we all get back to Falkreath… I’ll tell Astrid they’re my loyal students. Convince her. At the very least they could do the menial work of the sanctuary. Clean dishes, help cook, tend to the Night Mother’s sanctuary and keep it free of dust—Simple work. But it would give them a home.”

“If she says no…” Veezara’s hand gently turns her to look at him.

She swallows. His proximity is electrifying even after a night of Shadowscale training.

“She won’t say no, Veezara.” The Listener leans forward and lets her lips guide her. They brush against Veezara and the two share a long, sweet kiss. When their heads part, the Listener smiles faintly and reassures him. “Things will work out. The Dark Brotherhood will be glorious. These three are like little steps up that ladder. New recruits.”

She doesn’t mention the _gol hah _on her lips, or her intention of using it on Astrid should the lady refuse. She is the Listener, but she is also _Kara_, and these days both are equally desperate for control. 


	18. sorry about your loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> through the power of friendship the dragonborn and her dov recall a shout when timing is most crucial. she also hates delphine.

The world outside is a horizon of sun-lit, gassy rockscapes. Hot springs dot the terrain, rocks and boulders loom and tower from the ground, and strange ground-crawling plants hug the terrain like their lives depend on it. The sky is clear and blue, but the sunlight comes from a point that casts afternoon shadows. Her eyes narrow. _This looks like… The terrain borders the Eastmarch region of Skyrim. But that can’t be. Eastmarch is opposite the direction we took! The direction Velvet galloped. _She bites back the sting of the name in her head. _She was only a horse. I will not be distracted. I must not be distracted. _

The Listener wonders, briefly, if the world has begun to distort in physical geography. With everything else happening she doesn’t doubt the possibility. She looks at Veezara and catches his equally confused expression. “Things don’t add up, do they?”

“No. I was blindfolded, but,” the Argonian’s brows furrow. “I’d have heard the roar of the river flanking the first acres of Eastmarch, or the bubbling of the springs. It’s difficult terrain.” 

_Would Sanguine know?_ She feels magicka crackle under her fingertips. Her _dov _seems eager for her to summon the Daedra. _I thought you didn’t like him, dov. _

The dragon spirit snarls in response.

“Veezara. The letter—The amulet.” The Listener resumes the conversation with a stern gaze and antsy hands. She meets the Shadowscale’s stare and nods at him. “If we’re outnumbered—I will offer myself to them. They’re after the Dragonborn, not the Last Shadowscale. You’re responsible for getting Amound Motierre’s contract to Astrid; do not let it out of your sight.”

“Is this an order from the honorable rank of Listener, Kara?” The words should be sarcastic, but they are spoken in sincerity. Veezara’s eyes are knowing and solemn. The unspoken message lingers, _For the glory of the Brotherhood. For the honor of Sithis and the unholy matron. Do you ask as a friend or command me as a Listener? _

She exhales. “Yes. I’m giving you an order as your Listener.”

“So be it.” Veezara pries the items from her pack and transfers them to his own. He casts her a fleeting glance before the duo are interrupted by a thin, sickly Redguard flailing at them.

“Th—Th—Th—Thalmor!” Filre looks ready to curl up in a corner. His weake state is overexerted by the act of walking as it is.

The Dragonborn and Shadowscale follow Filre to Leorn and Alysoin. The latter duo are tucked behind a decrepit ruin of a gate. The sunlight pours on them; it lights up the wall’s outer edge, the open plains and springs beyond the prison, and illuminates the squad of Thalmor. The Listener swallows as she counts; her eyes widen and her palms begin to feel clammy when she reaches the number _twelve _in her head.

“They have glass armor, not elven. I’d recognize it anywhere.” Leorn grits his teeth. “Assholes, the Altmer. They come for you, Dragonborn? I know the lovely lady you sucked the life out of was mentioning it. A casual topic for my whipping!”

“They have. I can bend the will of one, I think, but not all twelve. The other eleven will have to be dealt with. I’ll save my shout for close quarters combat, or if I’m in a tight spot.” The Listener readies a bow in one hand. She doesn’t know where the bandits used her arrows, but she’s supplemented her glass and ebony arrows with sturdy steel ones; it’s better than nothing. “Veezara, I’ll head further down the plains. When I have cover, I’ll shoot. Don’t give away your position until you have an opening. And whatever you do—do _not _throw all your daggers. Or weapons, for that matter, you three.” The Listener eyes her rookies warily.

“If you’re flanked, Listener?” Veezara asks. “Outnumbered? Overwhelmed?”

“We both know the answer to that; I intend to _shout_ before they try to do me in or take me into custody, it’ll be heard across the land no matter where you hide,” she exaggerates slightly but it’s enough for Veezara to understand. Kara glances at the Argonian and hesitates. “…You make sure the contract is delivered, Shadowscale.”

“If you miss our exercise tonight I won’t forgive you.” Veezara’s response is curt.

The subtle meaning takes a moment to catch. She shakes her head and lets the smile linger. “You aren’t letting up on that, are you?”

“Repetition will help you navigate your emotions.” The Argonian states calmly. “Am I wrong?”

“No. Keep that potion on hand,” though she doesn’t imagine the rookies would go so far to try and steal it, the woman keeps Veezara’s possession of an invisibility potion under wraps. She focuses on the Thalmor Justicars. They’ve stopped to speak to a bandit that guards a perimeter further out. Her brows furrow when two Justicars grab the bandit and cast a flurry of spark spells on the poor man. She uses his dying screams as the distraction needed to sneak out from the group’s hiding space and head east.

The prison’s walls are tall and imposing. She’s happy to be out but the lack of cover appalls her. The Listener slips into a light thicket of brown shrubbery and lies flat on her stomach. Leather armor squeezes her form as she props herself up to raise her bow. She notches the steel arrow, aims, and fires. The arrow whizzes by a Thalmor’s head and all twelve heads snap up to look her direction. She swallows. _I’m rusty. Guess I don’t have a choice. _

If the elves cast their protective spells then her arrows will _barely_ scratch the armor. Glass armor is durable enough on its own to hold steady against arrows of iron and steel. The Listener doesn’t see any options; she clambers upright and pulls back on her bow as Oblivion breaks loose. She holds herself still for the second and third shots; the first of those two nails an elven mage in the head while the second misses. The Thalmor have perceived her location now; she grimaces and looses three more steel arrows before she takes off _running_. Eleven Thalmor follow with a flurry of fireballs and electricity crackling and sizzling behind her. She makes it several hundred feet before a fireball lands and blasts the back of her armor. The impact throws her forward and off the slope she’s on; she tumbles and rolls to the bottom and scurries up. Three arrows fall out of her quiver but she pulls another shot back, waits for a Thalmor head to pop up, and releases.

The Thalmor cries out in pain when it nails his eye. Seven Thalmor heads follow where the Justicar screams and points. She curses the useless steel arrows and flees north where the slope bed dumps into a spring. Concern over the number of Thalmor following her and any number that may have stayed back causes her to shout _fus _at the sky. It’s early to use and may attract unwanted attention but she has no time to care; she dives into the hot springs and struggles against a powerful jet of water forcing her to the slope’s edge of the pool. Kara swims sideways to the eastern edge and hauls herself up. A bolt of lightning sparks across the length of the hot springs and pain erupts across her body. Burnt leather fills her nostrils. Her muscles clench and cramp uncomfortably but she takes off running.

Only eight Thalmor are on her tail. She catches sight of seven of them and narrowly dodges the eighth as he drops from higher ground and slams into the ground behind her. She zips past clusters of rock and craggy cliffs; her eyes spy a pair of sabre cats stalking an elk and she screams at them to draw their attention. Their eyes narrow on her and they come running; she comes to a halt and turns the other way. With two angry mammals wanting her neck, she sprints against the pain in her legs and takes the Thalmor by surprise. She pulls a dagger from its sheathe at her waist and slits one high elf’s throat before three catch on and call out warnings to the others. A Justicar engages her in close combat but she screams _gol hah _and the elf stops still, incapable of screaming when one sabre cat mauls them. The Listener’s smile doesn’t last long; she throws her dagger at a Thalmor mage casting a lightning bolt. Though the mage drops like a rock, she screams when the electricity ricochets through her body.

A glass sword cuts into her back and she cries out as a kick follows. One of the Thalmor Justicars pulls her sword from the Listener’s body and hisses in elven words. The Justicar raises the sword and it dawns on Kara she’s wanted alive _and _dead; she rolls out of the way as the blade plunges into the soft dirt she just lay on. Blood oozes down her back and she tries to stand but a Thalmor mage summons a fireball and nails her in the chest. She hisses and staggers backward, unwilling to go down to something so rudimentary. Her chest heaves. She begins to crackle magicka around her fingertips but the casting falls flat as a poison begins to linger in her system and soak up her magicka.

“No fair!” She roars. Her _dov _agrees and it begs for control. The Listener relinquishes it and the _dov _surges forward with a fresh dagger in hand and her bow in the other. She ducks a fireball and throws her bow into the Thalmor Justicar responsible for the poison; the elf growls at her but her _dov _takes it as a challenge versus an act of intimidation. She roars her shout of _fus ro dah _and the Thalmor goes soaring dozens of feet and crashes into a rock.

The sabre cats she pissed off turn their attention back on her. One guards the corpse of the elf she will bent while the other stalks forward. She pants and hisses at it when a flurry of electricity soars through the air past her and nails it in her place. The Thalmor mage responsible looses a string of curses and takes aim at her. The Dragonborn snarls and darts under the first fireball. She raises a dagger but the lightning bolt hits first and kills her speed; the Thalmor mage sidesteps her easily and a glass dagger springs free into his hand. He grabs her by the hair and pulls her back until she’s staring into the sky at a painful angle.

“Disgusting wench, fit for a race inferior to the Altmer,” the high elf snaps and brings the dagger on her neck. “Die!”

_“Gol hah!”_ She begs the shout and the dagger stops an inch from her skin. “Release me! Flee!”

The high elf stiffens and lets her go. He turns and walks in the opposite direction. Another fireball crashes into the ground near her feet and she drops to her knees from the cloud of dust and dirt thrown into her face. When she staggers up and can see again, she spies not the remaining Thalmor of the eight-unit group, but the likes of ten fresh ones.

“Dragonborn, you have committed atrocities in the name of defending criminals like those of the Blades! Surrender yourself peacefully and you will be spared!” A Justicar calls from the distance. She freezes and turns around; golden heads line the hills around her. The number in her head rises to twenty.

_No. That’s not right. This isn’t part of the original group. This isn’t part of the plan. _Her heart begins to thump. She swallows as they march to her. Her hands go up. _Why would they send so many? Why would they bring extras? Unless—They’re reinforcements? They expected this? Did they—Did they think they would need this many for a Dragonborn? Do they think I'm a Blade myself? _

“On your knees, worm!” A Justicar kicks her back and she complies to the demand with a hiss of pain.

_Wait for it. I’ll shout. They’ll hear it. They’ll run. _

But instead of slapping cuffs on her or forcing a potion down her throat, the Justicars raise swords and ready spells. One steps forward and lifts a gleaming glass sword into the sky; the Justicar hisses, “By authority vested in me as Justicar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, by the right granted in the words of the White-Gold Concordat signed by Emperor Titus Mede the II, you are hereby sentenced to death!”

_Alive for a bonus. And dead for...   
_

She wants to live.

It’s not her time.

_“Tiid.” _Her _dov _calls to her.

_“Klo,”_ the Dragonborn remembers.

_“Ul!”_ _Dov _and woman alike finish in unison as the sword drops.

_Sixteen seconds._ The world comes to a stop. Her heart thuds in her chest. The Justicars can’t keep their grip on her as the magic of a dragon’s spirit and her will mingle and mix over the area in waves. She tears herself from them and grabs one’s glass sword. _Ten seconds. _

She runs.

_Five._

The world returns to color.

_Four._

She reaches a cliff and climbs.

_Three._

Her hand slips.

_Two._

_One._

_“Die!” _The sword-wielding Justicar can’t stop his momentium and his sword crashes into the arms of the Thalmor who initially knocked her down. She hears the cry of pain and momentary confusion before the high elves catch sight of her and begin throwing their spells. She hangs off the cliff face with one hand while her other reaches for a handhold—somewhere, _anywhere_—and touches flesh.

Another hand locks on hers while a fireball explodes the cliff face inches from her right side. Shrapnel specks her hide with pain but she cusses in dragon speech instead of dropping to the ground. She feels an arrowhead embed itself in the back of her right calf and she continues the strings of profanity as sturdy hands pull her up over the cliff edge. It’s not enough to throw the Altmer off and she knows it; she looks up long enough to identify her rescuer: a bulky woman in crisp leather armor. The woman's eyes blaze in anger at the Dragonborn. The blond-hair gives the identify of the lady away, but Delphine doesn’t give Kara enough time to comment before the Blade pulls out the arrow in her calf.

She screams. Delphine yanks her to her feet and pulls her along as the two run up a sleep hill littered with low-lying foliage. The Dragonborn stumbles on twisting red vines but Delphine is persistent and drags the Listener to her feet whenever she falters.

“Hurry, hurry! I did not march my ass out here to watch you be _slaughtered_!” The woman hisses.

The Dragonborn’s response is in dragon speech that neither woman know the translation of. Kara’s _dov _spirit finds it amusing enough to laugh. Delphine points out a coal-gray stallion tied to a tree and urges her to climb unto it’s saddle while the Blade unties the steed and clambers on behind her. The Dragonborn doesn’t think; she acts. She squeezes the horse with her legs and the horse takes off into a gallop across the hot springs-addled fields and plains of the Eastmarch. Neither woman relax until the golden elves of the Dominion are far, far beyond them, and even then, another hour passes before their horse is given a break slows to a brisk trot.

“You are useless.” Delphine growls. “Dragonborn.”

“I want to see you walk away from that many Thalmor and live to tell the tale,” Is Kara’s retort. She sighs and slumps forward enough to rub their horse’s neck. “Good boy.”

“Hands to yourself, he’s mine.” The Blade behind her grunts. With the elves off the horizon, Delphine begins to unwind and calm. The blond Nord eyes Kara carefully while the latter ignores her words and continues to pat the good horse. “I got your message.”

_Message..? Oh. _The Listener looks over her shoulder at the Blades member. “From the wrinkled grape? Esbern?”

“You can ask him yourself before I kill him for sending me out into that trap.” Delphine pinches the bridge of her nose and scowls. “He should have picked up your buddies by now. Talos help me if he’s loitering to make new friends. His Storm Atronach’s would have come in handy. And, judging by the _lovely_ outfit your friend wears—I bet he didn’t even need to cast more than once. Lucky bastard.”

“We found her like that.” The Listener lies through her teeth. She screeches lightly when Delphine slaps her back wound. “Bitch! That _hurts_!”

“Don’t lie to me. Esbern saw your uniform in the Ratway. You saved his life, but it doesn’t make us friends. The only reason I’ll associate with a member of the Dark Brotherhood is because you’re the damn Dragonborn,” the Blades member spits. “If he thought we could’ve left your allies behind—we would have.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re worse than him.” Kara blurts.

“Than who?” Eyes bear holes in her.

She stiffens. Delphine is much more intimidating in virtual reality, or reality if that is her case.

“…A friend of mine,” The Listener exhales and hopes Sanguine isn’t listening in to the conversation. “He thinks my soul is worth more than others. I resent that perspective.”

“It’s true. Only the Dragonborn can slay the World Eater.” Delphine huffs.

“Then keep it to yourself. I intend to live, not die in the process of this chaos. _Laas,_” the shout is spoken in a whisper as she spies movement on the horizon. She pulls back on the reins and narrows her eyes. “There’s three people up ahead—”

“Yes. And two horses. Keep it going, Gravel,” Delphine tells the horse. She meets Kara’s gaze and raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Who are they?”

The Blades member grins ear-to-ear. If Delphine wasn’t such an ass it might be a nice expression. Instead, the Listener’s eyes narrow and she contemplates how nice the woman’s throat would feel slit open. “Speak.”

“I told you earlier,” Delphine shows no fear as she waves at the group ahead. “Esbern wouldn’t let me leave your friends behind.”

“What? No—That can’t be right—” There’s no happiness at the news. Her heart drops and the reins nearly fall from her hands as _Gravel _continues to trot down the road. “There were five us together! _Five_—”

“Then someone died. Sorry about your loss.” Delphine states dryly.

The _dov _in her takes advantage of the moment and urges her to look back at Delphine and snap a shout, _“Gol hah! _Shut your mouth and sit in silence.”

As it turns out—there are four individuals at the clearing, with an undeath woman standing behind the wrinkly grape of a man called Esbern. Kara's body shakes in relief when she catches sight of the Shadowscale present; when Gravel stops near Esbern’s white mare, the Listener is helped off the saddle by Veezara. She gives him a meager smile and squeezes his hand. The Dragonborn begins to relax at his side but halts as her eyes trail the remaining members of the group. _Delphine, Esbern, Alysoin, Leorn… Where’s Filre? _

She doesn’t have to ask the question to know the answer.

“I shouldn’t have left—Fuck,” The Listener curses aloud and cusses internally, the latter in dragon speech.

“We need to get a move on,” Delphine cuts her train of thought before the Dragonborn can begin howling in anger. The Blades member eyes her carefully and straightens upright. “Thalmor won’t be far behind. We can mourn the dead later. I want to get back to Riverwood and have a long discussion with you, Dragonborn.”

_“Listener.”_ Kara snaps. “Call me what I am, Delphine! Don’t shy away because it makes you uncomfortable—” She can feel her _dov _howling at her to lash out, to seek the devastation that might bring her relief.

Veezara squeezes her hand. It barely helps, as do his firm words, “She’s right. There are more than you think and we can’t stand by and wait for the guillotine to fall. The risk runs in our line of work.”

“He was going to be one of us,” the woman hisses. She draws her hand back and stares Veezara in the eye. “That makes him _family!”_

“You’re losing your temper.” The Argonian observes. “Kara.”

_He’s right. _She knows the truth and hates that it’s the logical side of everything when all she wants is to screech and scream and snarl. Her _dov _wants Altmer flesh wrung through her nails! Sithis calls for the souls of Altmer from the Void! _How can he be so calm? _

“We need to get a move on if we’re to stay ahead of them,” Esbern clears his throat. “Listener. Dragonborn. Please understand—Your… Erm, comrade, he did not die in vain.”

“He took one of those golden bastards with him.” Leorn straightens upright. He’s got a deep injury on his arm, she realizes. Though the wound is bound and wrapped in linens it sprawls up and down the elder’s arm, no doubt painful.

Alysoin clears her throat and straightens upright. “Filre would probably want us to continue...? To live. You mentioned Falkreath—" 

“What? No.” Delphine interjects. “No. We are going to Riverwood. I’ve kept the Dragonstone you fetched for Farengar Secretfire—It has a map of all dragon burial sites in Skyrim—We need to head out immediately—Kyne—”

_“Kynesgrove, yes, _because the world is doomed if _another _dragon out of _hundreds of dragons _in Skyrim comes back to life,” The Dragonborn’s grip on Veezara’s hand tightens. She feels Veezara pull his hand away and move it to her shoulder. “Fine, fine, _Kynesgrove_, we’ll go to _Kynesgrove _and kill a _dragon _and maybe after that you’ll finally let me mourn in peace!”

“Actually—We need to get back to the sanctuary. We have two new members of our family to welcome and other matters to attend to.” Veezara’s eyes narrow at Delphine.

“Then you and your _Dark Brotherhood _friends go—But the Dragonborn stays.” Delphine snaps.

“She is our Listener. She comes with us.”

“No, let me go to Kynesgrove.” Kara interrupts the two before things become physical. Delphine smiles broadly while Veezara snaps his head at her. She doesn’t dare look at him; she’s had enough of Delphine to be anything but callously civil now. “I’m going to go kill the dragon Delphine wants me to murder. I’ll absorb its soul, take a walk on the beach, maybe bring Gabriella back a set of spare knitting needles to stab me with when it’s all over. Sounds like a fun time. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Listener—”

_“Tomorrow.”_

“Kara!” Veezara pulls her from the group and hisses a whisper loud enough for her ears only. “Amound Motierre—”

“I believe I gave you orders to take _it_ to Astrid.” The Listener hisses back. “Those orders stand. Take Leorn and Alysoin with you, I’ll run late no more than a half week.”

“And if you don’t come back?”

“Delphine needs me alive. She isn’t Thalmor; you can count on that. Besides, if I take too long Cicero will come looking for me. He'd take me home,” The Listener looks over his shoulders back at the group. Her eyes narrow on Delphine. “Tomorrow we part ways. I’ll meet you at the sanctuary when I’m through being a _hero_.”

The Argonian looks defeated. She despises the expression and limp posture it involves, it’s disgustingly unlike him. He’s the Last Shadowscale, a deadly warrior of tradition who now walks the path alone. He’s marked in her mind as the most composed and collected individual she knows. For Veezara’s composure to crack, even for just a second—Kara feels a heavy weight crawl unto her chest.

“Alright, Listener,” the Saxhleel breathes. “Let’s do it your way.”


	19. (smut) new leggings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the two continue their shadowscale exercises. it leads to a deeper connection in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only took 19 chapters to get to smut... and thus it begins

“Veezara.”

That evening, after hours of horseback, she seeks him out. She’s aware of how he feels, but she’s persistent and stubborn if their past is indicative of such. The camp is nestled in a pocket of forest. Delphine bans fire beyond the flames spell, but the Listener lights a tiny fire pit anyways after the Blades member goes to sleep.

“I know you’re awake.”

The Listener refuses to budge when she finds his bed roll. Even if the Argonian looks the part, she does not believe for a second he’s unconscious. His form contains a sliver of rigidity and his breathing is not the same peaceful slumber she saw days ago. Her eyes narrow and she reaches down to tear the blanket off him.

“Alysoin said she saw your eyes open, Veezara. Vampires may lie but I doubt she did over something trivial.”

He’s donned his Dark Brotherhood uniform again. Alysoin’s adopted a copy of leather armor from Delphine, though it looks less comfortable to sleep in versus the hand-stitched leather of Gabriella. It fits him much better than any fur or leather armor taken off of dead bandits. She drops the blanket on his face and stares until he grits his teeth. The Shadowscale’s yellow eyes snap open and veer at her. She isn’t going anywhere; distracted assassins are easily killed assassins and the last thing she wants is the Argonian six feet under.

“Give me my blanket, Listener,” the Shadowscale whispers harshly. He props himself up and his hands grab the cover from her without resistance. He drops back to the ground and snaps a cold, harsh word. “Leave.”

“I leave tomorrow.” The Listener says. She sits next to the Argonian and leans over him. “We’re distracted. Again.”

“This is your fault—”

“I know, _I know_,” the probably-thirty-year-old woman breathes out softly. “And my decision hasn’t changed—But what if it _is _the last time we see each other in a while, Veezara? It’s not good to have unspoken tension haunting us.”

“You are going with this strange woman to hunt _dragons_.” The Argonian’s head poking out of his bedroll’s blanket would be comical any other night. His eyes hold too much irritation for her to not take him seriously.

“I am. I’ll be okay on that front; Delphine’s a powerful warrior. She’s avoided Thalmor for years. You don’t have to worry about me.” The Listener frowns and averts her gaze.

“And?”

“And I said I would be here to do the Shadowscale exercises tonight. Here I am. You’re trying to sleep, I understand that, but I _need _to do those practices. You said it yourself, Veezara, I have a temper. It’s not… getting better on its own,” the woman sighs and lets her shoulders slump. Her mind flashes back to the prison. “My _dov _is territorial over this body. It wants to control it and me. It wants to bring forth devastation and destruction. But I am _not_ letting that happen, so I need to figure out how to avoid it.”

To her relief—Veezara complies. He sits upright and stretches before looking at her from the side. A frown lingers on his face. “You talk sometimes as if you are two separate creatures, Kara.”

“It’s not the strangest thing you’ve ever heard me say.”

“No. It’s not. Very well. We should do this somewhere else.” Veezara looks across the camp.

Leorn keeps watch with his back against a tree. Alysoin gives the two a wave before returning to a spell tome on conjuring fire atronachs. The two on watch are fifteen feet from Veezara’s and Kara’s firepit and bedrolls. Thirty feet out, the bodies of Esbern and Delphine sleep soundly; Esbern snores loud enough to be heard but quietly enough to sound like a faint rumble. The Listener nods her head in understanding; she stands and offers her fellow Brotherhood member a hand. Veezara accepts it and lets the woman lead him into the woods. The two don’t go too far out; deadly creatures stalk the trees and both take care to keep their eyes sharp and eardrums open.

Kara sits cross-legged in grass and leaves. She peers at Veezara and he joins her; their backs press to one another for a moment before the Listener speaks up.

“Do you want me to go first?” She offers.

Veezara shrugs. The woman feels the movement. “Whatever you are comfortable with.”

Kara bites her lip. Her fingers touch her blouse—it’s seen many better days—and she slowly pulls it off. The soft delicate clothes around her breasts follow. It’s oddly refreshing; she stretches her arms and relaxes in the night air. She taps Veezara’s shoulder when it is his turn. He pulls off his top and arm guards followed by his gloves. His back scales feel delightful against the Listener’s skin and she can’t resist smiling faintly and relaxing against him. Something about him is so _safe_.

“Can you imagine if a bear found us right now?” The Listener cannot stifle the amused note in her voice.

Veezara shakes his head. “It would be unbearable.”

“That’s a good one.” She snorts.

“Focus. Listener. This is a serious exercise.” He leans his back into hers and she shuts her eyes. “Tell me what you feel?”

“Content.”

“The texture, Kara.”

“Oh. You didn’t specify,” the woman states softly. She half-smiles at the Argonian’s silence. She offers an amicable, “Your back has a good texture. It’s soothing, in a way. I feel like I could count each scale from the ridges and bumps alone. You know, I’ve heard some Argonians have spikes or sharp crests or even feathers…”

The assassin’s tail gently prods her left thigh. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” Kara says sincerely. She bows her head. “Ask me again.”

She feels the Argonian shift positions against her. Though a shot of electricity caresses her skin, she holds firm against the feeling and exhales.

“What do you feel right now?”

“You’re warm. Your scales are warm, I mean.” She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and nods. “It may be the proximity of our bodies—But it’s nice against the cool night air. The scales on your back feel sturdy. Reliable. They aren’t new like how I imagine a baby Argonians scales might be. I don’t know how Argonians reproduce, so if that’s not right—Take it with a grain of salt.” She rubs the back of her head and frowns at the sound of Veezara’s snort.

He doesn’t say anything further so she looks over her shoulder and narrows eyes at him.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.” The Listener says.

Veezara breathes in. Each inhale can be felt. Something about the simple action is exhilarating.

The routine repeats for hours. The lack of sleep in both assassin’s schedules is wearing on them. Neither can fathom staying up later than necessary but Veezara pushes and prods Kara’s mind for different answers over the course of the night. He fixates on how her mind wanders or her thoughts circle, and the comments leave her with little room to wiggle out of criticism. The Listener is exhausted by the time he stops the exercise, but she holds back her complaints and quiets her _dov _before the dragon spirit can pitch in a comment. Kara exhales sharply and reaches for her clothes; she holds soft under garments in her hands and squints the material against her bare fingers.

“You know, I think this is helping.” She says as she hears Veezara pulls the top half of his uniform on. When she looks over her shoulders she finds it reflects the muscles rippling across his back accurately. Kara swallows but doesn’t look away. There’s an ache inside that doesn’t leave when all the Argonian does in grunt in a tired response. The acknowledgement to her words is _okay _but she feels her _dov _beginning to stir and claw at her insides.

“You have a long way to go. But your temper will improve. You may have to practice on your own at times.” The assassin tells her, not looking back. He makes a move to stand but she reaches and catches the edge of his shin guard. “Yes—”

For a moment he’s confused. She can see it in his big yellow eyes. It’s funny to think the sight of a woman’s breasts can make a guy turn still as stone, but at the same time she _completely _understands the feeling. It’s hard not to look, and it’s harder not to be overwhelmed by a pair of breasts that are willingly offered. Though the Listener finds her own thoughts a touch too lewd for her to take seriously, she blames it on past conversations with Sanguine. It is _solely _the responsibility of the Daedric Prince that she’s decided to think about these sorts of topics more often. It has _nothing _to do with her own desperate need for physical intimacy or how the constant close contact with Veezara is about to drive her up Alduin’s wall. She tells herself those things in her mind, but it does nothing to dissuade how utterly needy she is for touch.

“Kara.” The Argonian’s eyes shift to her own. He stares at her with an unreadable expression. “What are you trying to say?”

“I wanted to try something else tonight. Too. I’m not blowing off practice, I promise. I take that seriously.” The Listener says softly.

“That’s up for debate.” But he sits next to her. She notices his breathing has changed.

“I wanted to know if… You would be okay. If I touch you?” The woman bites her lip but holds her ground in keeping eye contact. She’s nervous, but she wants to do it. She manages a smile. “I want to know.”

“You’re a strange woman.”

“I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no.” She blinks.

“It’s a yes,” the Argonian’s cheeks look a hue greener than before. If it’s the equivalent to Veezara blushing—she’ll accept it, happily. “What do you want to do?”

“Turn your back to me.” The Listener says. When he’s done so, she slides up behind him. She wraps her arms around his torso and breaths in the smell of the days past. Veezara’s scent is mixed in. It’s not heavenly but it fuels her need. She presses her chest against his back and half-smiles at the sound of his breath hitching. “Can I get you to take off some clothes? It’s okay to say no. Don’t say yes because I’m the Listener; I’ll know.”

Instead of a verbal response, the man unclasps his arm guards and pulls them off with his chest piece. The familiar bare scales of his back call to her and she can’t stop a hand from creeping to the small of his back and strumming fingers across each bump and ridge. It’s like the time at the sanctuary when her hands were on his face: she’s in awe at how unique each of them feels to her. She feels them between fingers, draws little circles, and rubs her palm against the ones that are too rough for her fingertips to handle. Every time Veezara holds his breathe or hums, she takes note of the action and tries to repeat it between new ones. The Argonian is an interesting man and the sounds he makes inspire her.

Her hands return to the front of his chest. She feels out every muscle beneath the smoother scales of his front torso. Feeling his heartbeat with her hands and gauging how fast he breaths or inhales gives her a sense of peace. She presses her breasts to his back and he hisses softly; she can’t hold back a sharp inhale from the sensation.

“This is different,” she mumbles, almost dizzy from each feeling as it dances through her body and spins on her nerves. “You’re different. A good different. Gods.”

Veezara exhales sharply when she shifts against his back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “The Hist blesses us with different experiences. This one is… Divine.”

Her fingers skim the edges of his scales and fall to his hips. He stiffens and she freezes. Her voice comes out a quiet, concerned whisper. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” the Argonian mumbles. “Please continue.”

It’s so polite she almost laughs but the atmosphere leads her not to. She presses her lips against his shoulder and starts a trail of kisses from his shoulder to her neck. Her tongue curls around each scale and the reaction is immediate; the man moans and shudders. It’s an encouraging sound but she halts and looks at him until he nods at her to continue. She resumes the action; her hands fall lower and trail his navel to his groin. He may wear the leggings of the Dark Brotherhood’s uniform but her fingers are clever and slip beneath the waistline. She’s not certain what to expect, she’s utterly clueness on the ins and outs of physical anatomy of races of this world, but the woman doesn’t falter from her slow, careful touches.

“By the Nine Divines, _Kara,” _Veezara’s voice drops in tone and he begins to pant. _  
_

Her hands scour the lower half of his form curiously. Her _dov _feels satisfaction whenever the woman’s hands lock unto the Argonian’s sex organ. The noise that results makes the _dov _bellow in her head, and it makes _her _happy. She starts to touch him more. Her fingers move to grip the base of his shaft. Veezara grits his teeth and groans against her; his hips fidget and buck against her hands while she slowly moves her palms up and down. Each action pushes his back scales into her chest and she sighs in delight. Her forefinger rubs circles at the tip of his sex organ and she smiles when Veezara’s back arches.

“More— Kara—” The Argonian’s needy tone surprises her. It’s incredibly vulnerable and she feels honored to be one to hear it.

Her hands grip his sex organ through his pants and she begins to move faster. He feels so warm to her, like he might just burst in her hands. She can’t stop as the Argonian’s sounds increase and his pants because deep, hoarse moans in her ears. Veezara’s face is flushed with soft green and sweat falls down his brows as she watches every change in him, all because of _her_. His mouth parts and he mumbles incoherent sounds that are vaguely like her name and title. When she massages the tip of his sex organ between her fingers he bites on his lip hard and hisses. His tail wobbles and his legs shake as the man suddenly gasps and convulses in her hands. A hot, sticky liquid erupts where her hands loom. When she withdraws her hands, her _dov _begins bellowing in her head in triumph.

“How was it?” She peers over his shoulder at his face. His eyes are shut and he takes long breaths.

“It was better than anything I could hope for. Or imagine.” The Argonian calms. “I didn’t think… you would want to do something like this, so soon.”

She presses a kiss to his shoulder and finds plants to wipe her hands off on. Not perfect, but it'll do. “Mm. I wanted to. I… felt curious. Eager. Your scales feel amazing.”

“I would not be opposed to this becoming part of the routine.” Veezara says.

She shoots him a look. “That good, huh?” A cheeky grin follows.

To her delight, he hums and bows his head. “If I die by your touch my soul will depart to the Void with a look of satisfaction.”

“I would like to do more, eventually. I do. Right now,” the Listener leans against him and exhales unto the nape of his neck. “I’m still figuring me out. But I wanted to do _this. _I felt like I could do this. By my own volition. I felt… safe.” Her words cause her to pause. Distantly, a memory comes to mind and she shuts her eyes in hopes of burying it.

“The nightmares I used to have.” Veezara’s voice comes out softly. “They were of a time during my early years as a Shadowscale. I made a mistake. Wound up captured, interrogated, imprisoned and tortured for two years.”

She lifts her head back up and peers at him. He shifts upright and turns to face her. His hands caress her cheeks and he kisses her slowly until she’s melting into his form. Her arms return to his torso and she smiles against his lips. “I hope things are better for you now.”

“You could say that.” The Argonian smiles in return. He rests his forehead against hers and breathes slowly. “I only mention it… You looked as if something came across you. I hope you know you are not alone, Kara. The Brotherhood is family. We look out for one another. That extends beyond me—”

“But I’m not touching more dicks than what appeals to me.” The woman remarks in a tone that is entirely too casual. "That applies to _all_ genitalia, thank you."

Veezara’s laugh is short and sweet. He kisses her again. And again. And again. And for a time they remain like that on the forest floor, where dirt and leaves irritate their bodies but neither care enough to brush it all away. Her head rests on his chest and she enjoys the sound of his heartbeat while his fingers play through her hair. He pauses and holds up an uneven strand, “When did you cut this?”

“The whole… Daedric Prince sorcery time.” Kara answers. “I thought it would help my stealth. Hair catches on things, Veezara. It can make noise or stand out against an otherwise camouflaged assassin.”

“This is a very good look for you.” The Argonian declares seriously. “I like it.”

“I’m glad. I’m stuck with it for a while.” She huffs and peers up at him. “Did you care for it when it was long?”

“I did. But I had thoughts of other uses for it.” There’s a moment where she _swears_ she catches a nigh-playful gleam in his yellow eyes. Veezara hums and returns to running his hand through her hair. “You’re a strange woman. Now I must find new leggings to wear. They’ll ask questions, assume answers. Regardless of what you say or do.”

“Let them.” The Listener exhales.

“Very well.”

“I still have to travel to Kynesgrove tomorrow.” The thought crosses her mind and she frowns. “I should have saved that information for morning.”

“I’ve accepted it,” Veezara says. He pauses then adds. “I never asked—merely assumed—are you involved with the jester? Should I expect to fill him in on this?”

“On us?” Kara cracks a sleepy grin. “Divines, do you have any idea where my mind goes when you say that?”

“It’s a serious question—”

“I mean.” The woman looks thoughtful for a moment. “No. I still need to speak with him myself. I’ll do so on my return. I will tell you what’s happened between us; we’ve kissed. But that’s it. I wouldn’t,” she pauses. “I wouldn’t mind it if things continued between him and I. But that’s why I need to talk with him, Veezara. I need to know if he… cares about being an _only_ partner. Because if he does—It won’t work. Me and him. I don’t think I can dedicate myself to only one person. That’s not who I am,” Kara bites her lip. “But if he does—If he is okay with it—How do you feel? If him and I were—”

“It doesn’t bother me. But I imagine it will bother Astrid.”

At that Kara _bursts _out laughing, tears in her ear. She can barely muffle the noise when she remembers it’s early in the dark morning hours. “Why—What? On Earth—Nirn. Explain.”

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s… stressed. Strained. Things have been difficult for the Dark Brotherhood these past years—Before you showed up it had been a long time since we had any new recruits, Kara,” the Argonian explains quietly. “I think she struggles to make amends with the fact you are the Listener. I struggled at first, too. But you _are _the Listener. The Amound Motierre contract will exemplify that. She’ll accept you.”

“And that has to do with Cicero _how?”_ The woman scoffs.

“She doesn’t care for him. Or his dancing.” Veezara responds.

Kara yawns. It’s a big yawn and it brings a wave of drowsiness to her eyes. “I’m not sure what to make of that, Veezara. Cicero’s dancing is _exquisite_. Do you think the others will care if we sleep here tonight? I made a fire pit; Delphine will be pissed when she finds it.”

“You’re falling asleep regardless, so.”

“It’s better than falling off the face of the world...” She’s asleep before she can think through the sentence, wrapped up in the Argonian and perfectly happy with the universe. 


	20. try not to freak out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she kills the dragon but kynesgrove turns out differently than she anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dragonspeech and trying to figure out how to write it is my true arch nemesis

“Your damn _Brotherhood _stole our horses!” Delphine rouses her from her slumber at dawn with a string of curses. It’s a tell-tale sign of how the morning will go. Everything from the dangers of having a fire in the forest to waltzing around the wilderness half-naked and unarmed is raved and ranted; she pretends to listen, if only out of a soppy guilt and amusement. 

Veezara, Leorn, and Alysoin are gone and the Dark Brotherhood will have acquired two new recruits _and _mounts when the trio return to Falkreath. She considers it the best possible result. When Esbern notes a spare of his breeches are also missing from his bag, she muffles her snorts and chuckles.

The horse problem is resolved when the trio run into a caravan of Stormcloak soldiers heading west to an encampment. One shout of _gol hah _at the captain and the soldiers begrudgingly hand over three sturdy mares. She names hers _Sprout_, calmly patting the animal on the neck after she’s saddled. Though she doesn’t care to grow too attached after Velvet’s demise, she allows the name to sink in. She overhears the names ‘Hilda’ and ‘Fenrir’ thrown around the Blades’ animals. For a time the Listener can’t help but question if Delphine and Esbern worry about becoming too attached to their animals; loss is a constant in Skyrim and it’s never good to be too invested in the lives of fragile, squishy mortals.

_Unless you’re the Lord of Debauchery, the Prince of Indulgences. _She smiles at the thought.

The ride out to Kynesgrove is a treacherous one. To get from Eastmarch’s prison to the small mining town normally requires a few hours of horseback riding across difficult terrain. Given the approximate location of the trio’s morning camp and the detour to obtain new mounts, Kynesgrove is south-east by a half-day. The back-tracking through the hot-springs addled plains is complicated further by maneuvering past scores of giants, mammoths, and the occasional group of bandits. Despite her _dov _calling for blood—and likewise from the Daedric blade sheathed at her waist—the Listener complies with Delphine’s not-so-gentle commands to leave them alive and hurry up. 

“If my analysis is correct, the dragon buried near Kynesgrove will be the next to come back to life,” Delphine addresses the trio when they stop to let their horses drink from a spring. “But I don’t know _when_. That’s why I’m pushing you, Dragonborn. If it gets brought to life early—The people of Kynesgrove are going to be more casualties in this mess.”

“It shouldn’t rise before I arrive.” She feels her stomach rumble.

“You seem sure of that,” Esbern’s wrinkly face pops up from behind his horse. He scrunches his brows and peers at her. “You’ve been confident in yourself since I met you.”

The Dragonborn sits on a rock and sighs. “I’m not going to explain myself—But I know I’m not always right. I’m not _perfect. _But I also know… Rather—I have a feeling this is going to play out a certain way. I think Alduin is going to put on a grand display for us in resurrecting this dragon when we _get there_. When _I _get there. Esbern, if you think I am at all not full of myself and have some truth behind the words—You should see if the people of Kynesgrove will evacuate the area until the dragon is slain.”

“No,” the man is stubborn in his rebuke. “I am coming with you two—I need to see this—I must confirm with my own eyes! I will support you two in combat—”

_“Gol hah,” _the Dragonborn calls. “Esbern, talk to the people of Kynesgrove and ask them to vacant the area upon arrival.”

The old man climbs unto his horse and the two take off. Delphine’s eyes rage in anger; the Blades’ member storms over to the Dragonborn and pulls her to her feet by the leather chest piece. “How dare you! That was magic! Magic of the voice, the thu’um! You shouted him into submission!”

“I gave him the motivation he needs to make sure the people of Kynesgrove will be safe.” Is her response.

Delphine punches her. Her first fist connects with the woman’s face but the second is caught after Kara recovers from her shock at being struck. She bashes her head against the Blades’ member’s forehead and Delphine releases her with a yell. Both stumble backwards. The two woman hold their heads and leer at the other; the Listener’s face wears a half-assed grin. The latter’s hands twitch as the _dov _inside of her begins to unfurl and growl for control.

“I’ll let that one slide,” she exhales sharply and fights her _dov _back to the recess of her soul. “But the next—”

“Why the Divines sought to make a member of the _Dark Brotherhood _Skyrim’s chosen hero is beyond me. But you are no friend of the Blades.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” The Listener tilts her head to one side. Her nose still hurts from the other day. “You going to slay me like you intend to slay _Parthuurnax?”_

A look of _disgust _creeps up the blond woman’s face. She clenches her fist. “He’s a war criminal! He’s committed atrocities in Alduin’s name! He helped Alduin enslave our ancestors!”

“And then he betrayed his brother, taught humanity the thu’um, and—”

“That makes him worse, you wretched bitch! We can’t give him the opportunity to betray us in the end—"

“Do you know the _dov _tongue, Delphine? The word ‘_tiid_?’” The Listener straightens upright. She breathes slowly. “It means time. It’s part of a shout. _Time-Sand-Eternity._ That’s how I feel sometimes—Like I’m a speck of sand lost in millions of others as we flow to the low of the hourglass. Then something beyond us picks the hourglass up, turns it over, and this eternal cycle continues. It makes me feel lost, like I’ve lived and died _over _and _over _and _over_. I don’t know if I want it anymore. Every time I think I’m sure—These thoughts come back into my head and make me doubt what I really want, who I wish to be.”

The Blades’ member pauses. “I don’t understand—”

“If I’m honest, you shouldn’t.” She fingers her Daedric dagger in its sheathe. _“Tiid klo ul.”_

_Sixteen seconds. _She strides to Delphine in ease and removes the woman’s shortsword and daggers. As another five seconds pass, she binds the woman’s hands behind her back with a strip of leather from her old shrouded uniform. _Three… Two… One… _

She steps back and watches the situation set in. Delphine’s eyes widen and she spins on her feet trying to undo the wrappings. Kara moves to the woman’s horse and ties its reins to the back of Sprout’s saddle. Delphine screeches. “What did you do!? Unhand me!”

Kara uses another strip of leather to gag her.

“Honestly, aside from the Parthuurnax quest, I really like the Blades.” The Dragonborn says, “I think it’s tragic what happened to them at the hands of the Dominion. The lives lost—And presented in such a degrading fashion, too. I read the wiki page; the Dominion dumped heads upon heads of your fallen allies in front of the Emperor. With you being one of the last two Blades in Skyrim—I can’t imagine how hard it must be to constantly be looking over your shoulder, wondering if today will be your last day. I may be less inclined in this state to respect you, but I respect your character and her resolve to carry out her oaths no matter what, even if it opposes the Last Dragonborn. That’s true devotion to the oath you took.”

She frowns and climbs unto Sprout’s saddle.

“You aren’t an insufferable bitch. But as it turns out—I’m not an emotionally stable person who thinks rationally. I’m very angry, and scornful, and I resent my husband for everything he’s done to me. But my anger and my scorn and my fury shouldn’t be directed at you. I don’t want my _dov _or I to hurt you,” The Daedric dagger screams in silent protest at her reluctance to _stab, stab, stab_. “But it feels like that’s how all our conversations have been leading to. So, I’m cutting them short here. I’m restraining my feelings and my _dov._ You’ll find a way out of those, leather’s not that hard to break, and—_Laas._” She scans the surroundings and nods in satisfaction. “There’s no one for at least a mile, human, dragon, giant, or otherwise. Unless you really want to die by starvation or exposure—You’ll be safe. Esbern will get the people of Kynesgrove to safety while I murder Sahloknir. Go back to Riverwood and leave me and my _kind _in peace.”

The trek to Kynesgrove is surprisingly peaceful without the Blades’ woman to hassle her over every little thing. She doesn’t regret what she’s done; she’s spared the life of a woman she both respects and despises in the Blades’ storyline. She’s taken steps to ensure Esbern and Delphine are both away from the site of the resurrection. The battle will be private. She wonders if she might even have a chance to speak to the World Eater. Would the god be open to negotiation or is he limited to the scripted actions of the video game _Skyrim? _She doesn’t have an answer to that nor can she discern what is or isn’t ‘script’ and ‘code’ versus a new reality.

She finds Esbern continuing the work of her shout on the outskirts of town. He doesn’t acknowledge her beyond a vague grunt when she hands the reins of Delphine’s horse to him and waves him on. She rides Sprout through the wilderness that flanks Kynesgrove; she knows she’s found the burial plot when the massive mound of earth presents itself in the middle of an unusually quiet clearing. Kara leaves Sprout untied; she hopes the horse has the sense to flee when the fight ensues.

The World Eater is heard before he is seen. She hears the great gales of wind that each flap of his wings produces, and the roars that shudder trees and knock songbirds quiet. She watches the dark shape circle around the burial mound before he lands. His form is as big and dark and imposing as he was when they first met at Helgen. She keeps her back pressed to a tree trunk and holds her breath while the World Eater strides forward and up to the rim of the burial mound. She hears him suck in a breath and she braces herself when the trees rustle. The whole forest shakes from the explosive pressure of Alduin’s thu’um—

_“Slen tiid vo! Zu’u lost daal, Sahloknir!_”

She’s lost her Brotherhood bow again thanks to the encounter with Thalmor the day back, but the trip to Kynesgrove—and theft of Delphine’s horse—gave her access to a rudimentary hunting bow. It’ll do. She plucks a steel arrow from her quiver, draws back on the string, and takes aim. The sight of the resurrection makes her shudder in horror as putrid fumes and stench of rotten flesh swarm the burial mound; a skeleton, larger than any dragon she’s fought, rises from the ground and shakes off soil. Alduin roars in approval as the undead skeleton’s body begins to glow and re-emerge from within the bones. Fresh flesh, tendons, layers of fat and muscles, it all piles unto the reborn creature.

“Alduin!” The dragon bellows the name and bows its head. Sahloknir has grey-blue scales. They’re beautiful and remind her of a coming storm, which the dragon hints at as it begs its leader, _“Thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruzik?” _

_Tiid. Time. Alduin used that in his thu’um. But what do slen and vo mean? I can’t remember. _She doesn’t take the shot, disturbed by the thought.

She watches Alduin stalk the smaller dragon. The World Eater is truly the largest and most deadly of dragonkind; the black divinity is twice the size of Sahloknir’s already gigantic form. In that moment, Kara understands how humanity came to fall to the wrath of the _dovah. _

_“Geh, Salohknir. Kaali miir!” _The World Eater snarls. _“Zu’u unslaad! Zu’u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko lein.” _For a second, she swears the dragon is scolding his inferior; his head snaps at her hiding spot and she swallows. _“—Dovahkiin!”_

She could never hide from a God.

The Dragonborn steps into the open. Her bow remains raised but the aim shifts to Alduin, as if her flimsy steel arrows can pierce the obsidian-hardened scales of the deity. “—Alduin.”

_“Ful losei, dovahkiin! Duin, zaam mey tiid! Zu’u koraav nid nol dov hi_!” The World Eater takes a step toward her. “You do not even know of our tongue, do you? Such arrogance! _Beyn! _To call yourself _dovah_!”

_Duin. Zaam mey tiid. _She swallows. _What are the words before tiid? Before time? Duin is like Alduin—His name stands for… Destroyer. Devour. Master. Duin—Devour master? Dov, what does it mean? _

_“Nivahriin, Duin. Dir ko maar! Sahloknir! Krii daar joore!”_ The World Eater roars. The clouds overhead spiral into a swirling vortex as the God rises from the ground in a leap and flies off. The Dragonborn spots him circling once before his form fades into the horizon.

She’s blasted in the face by Sahloknir’s shout of _fo_. Gales of ice pour from the dragon’s mouth as it advances on her and she falls back into cover. Ice imbues her body and she shivers and chatters while the dragon’s voice begins to crawl closer with his steps. “I am Sahloknir! Hear my voice and despair_, dovahkiin!_ My lord Alduin requires your death!”

“I got that part,” she forgets her bow and _useless _steel arrows and summons a flame atronach instead. It shows up in time to take the next _fo _aimed her direction; she uses the atronach as a buffer between her and Sahloknir’s jaws while she follows the treeline further around the burial mound.

The dragon howls in triumph when the atronach explodes into flames. Sahloknir’s figure stalks forward and his claws dig into tree trunks. She swallows when she realizes what he’s doing: tearing up the trees by the roots, ripping them apart in his talons. Her steps pick up but the snapping of branches underfoot lead the dragon straight to her. He bellows and snaps his jaws, barely missing her head, but his tail crashes through the foliage and throws her against a tree. She gasps and tastes blood in her mouth.

_Not today! Today is not my time! _The woman wiggles out and staggers away in her shout. _“Tiid klo ul!”_

The world pales in colors and slows to a crawl. The sixteen seconds aren’t long but it’s enough for her to seek shelter further into the woods. She feels time resume and hears Sahloknir shout a word she doesn’t recognize. Flames engulf the woods twenty feet from her location. She swallows and creeps into the shadows; her magicka pools drain as she forces a Muffle spell unto her body. Conjuration magic crawls down her arm and into her fingers as she calls another flame atronach before booking it further into the woods. This time the atronach lasts twenty seconds before the dragon snaps it in two and flames explode in the _dov_’s mouth.

“Come and face me,” Sahloknir leaps into the air and circles the tree canopies. “You can not hide from me, _dovahkiin!”_

_“Laas.” _She whispers. The red aura of the dragon burns overhead in her vision. To the south, closer to the burial mound, she gawks at the sight of a human-shaped speck of red. _Who has the nerve to come here at a time like this? _

Her _dov _growls at the implication. It is her fight! _Their _soul to slay! The _dov _will not share with another, not one as grand as this!

Her hand goes to the Daedric dagger at her waist. She unsheathes it and grips it tightly. _I know the soft spots of a dragon’s physique. The throat. It retains elasticity for devouring and swallowing large prey whole. Like a boa—Most dragons cannot afford layers of collagen plating across their throat. The scales wouldn’t give the flexibility needed for consuming food. I wish I had gone into STEM instead of working at a grocery store. _She grits her teeth.

She’s vastly under-powered to take on a dragon like Sahloknir. The reptillian is faster, stronger, and has offensive shouts to back up its quick reflexes. With better armor, poisons, potions, and an arrow and bow suitable for this form of combat, she knows it would be an equal playing ground. She knows she could kill the thing. She’s done it in playthroughs before! But she doesn’t have ten tons of cheese wheels to consume sporadically between landing hits on the creature. She doesn’t have access to all other shouts in the game, to the geared-up kit she builds using stolen soul gems and unnecessary potion buffs, and she doesn’t have any kind of potion that might give her an edge. Sprout took off when Alduin’s roar first sounded. The only equipment the Dragonborn possesses is the quiver of useless arrows, a Daedric Prince’s dagger, and what little bits and bobs are in the satchel strapped to her hip.

She feels the bag. A lump inside alerts her to something she knew was not present a day ago; the Dragonborn unbuttons the bag and stares Veezara’s potion of invisibility in the eye.

_You sly, sneaky Saxhleel. _The smile on her face is ridiculously sappy. _I thought I told you to take it with you. _

She holds it to the gloomy light the overcast sky offers. Judging its clear consistency and color, she reckons the vial will offer twenty seconds of invisibility. It’s not a lot and it will automatically disperse once she interacts with something beyond her person.

“One shot, huh?” The woman swallows nervously. “How dramatic.”

_“Dovahkiin!” _Sahloknir’s voice echoes before he barrels over the trees. _“Yol!” _A scorching hot line of flames streaks the ground around her, imprisoning the lady in a circle of fire.

She hisses. Her _dov_ is normally satiated by hot and cold elements, but this time the dragon spirit in her yearns to tear through fire and crush it in her hands. The mental willpower to keep the _dov _contained gives her a screaming headache. She growls in pain and downs the invisibility potion. Her entire figure, armor and all, vanish from sight. She hopes that’s what happens; Kara does not know what the dragon sees but she muffles the sigh of relief that comes when Sahloknir’s head snaps from one direction to the next. He lands in the circle a foot from her. His breathing is heavy. He snarls and inhales the air. “I can smell you here, _dovahkiin_… You reek of impending demise!”

It’s perhaps the only moment she has. She ducks around his left forearm and screams _“Tiid klo ul!” _in the dragon’s face as her Daedric Dagger rises to meet his throat. The blade follows home; she drags it as far down the throat as the flesh lets her before hardened belly plates begin. By the time sixteen seconds has passed, Sahloknir’s body is limp and he gurgles a dying breath. Kara collapses to her knees and exhales heavily while the dragon’s body crumbles into glowing orange; a wind whips from the skeleton and plunges inside of her body. She gasps and shudders at the sensation of the soul worming its way into the depths of her being; her _dov _roars in dominance at the new addition.

She sits there until the flames of Sahloknir’s _yol _begin to die.

_Yol. I don’t know what it means—But it brings fire. _She wraps her arms around herself. Her head begins to hurt and she buries it in her knees as flames crackle at her side. The sound of footsteps—smaller, softer—emerge ten feet where the treeline begins again. When she lifts her head she sees Delphine’s solemn form.

“You idiot!” The woman growls at the sight of her body. “You’re—”

The Dragonborn’s eyes trail to her arms and legs. She hiccups as a rush of cold and nausea takes over. She sees the blood of Sahloknir, a bright sanguine-red, pooling around her. It doesn’t register until the dizziness sets in that it is _her _blood and not the dragon’s. She wasn't successful at dodging his jaws, his talons, or the flying, broken trees despite her initial thought. The adrenaline fading reveals the extent of the wounds, some internal and others external: splinters of tree branches and trunks torn by the deceased dragon’s claws impale and shred every inch of her exposed body, her chest hangs heavy with unnatural pressure forced in one side, and blood drops from her nose and mouth. She feels dozens of wounds bleed and the pain reels her from steady to a soft cry as she goes limp on the forest floor.

This time her dream is a nightmare. It’s not of her husband. She can’t tell how she knows its her but she _knows _the body on the ground is hers. It’s in their room, in the shared apartment, close to the PC where a game remains stuck on a continue screen. She’s dressed in her work clothes, or she thinks she is, as the sheet covering the figure on the floor soon hides any hint of her attire. She sees the gargantuan trails of blood, the bloody handprints, the broken and tussled décor. She counts holes in walls, notes lamps knocked over, and finds shattered glass and broken bottles marred in sanguine. Dozens of people stand and walk around her apartment; she doesn’t know them. Their uniforms are strange.

_Should I know them? _She thinks. She can’t remember.

The next time her brain registers something she’s in too much pain to move. The feel of silk sheets is familiar, but her brain distinctly recalls someone warning her about staying in them too long. She can’t move. She tries. She struggles to so much open her eyes and the light of the decadent bedchamber fills her mind with such pain a faint, garbled moan of agony slips out. She shuts her eyes and lays in the bed. The aromas of the room and beyond it call to her in a sing-song way, where her nostalgia is intrigued but the logical side of her brain shuts down any ideas of standing. Music comes from every corner; it’s a constant but faint chorus of voices, of harps, flutes, and bardic poems. Sometimes the voices that echo are not human in nature.

“Ah. You’re awake.” A polite voice inquires from somewhere. She moans in pain as a response. Footsteps approach the bed and firm hands feel her forehead, touch her cheeks, and listen to her heart. “Good, good. Can’t have everyone dying on us! We’ve put enough souls and power into facilitating your unusual lifespan, miss.”

_Dying? _

“I’ll inform Lord Sanguine you are conscious and, for the time being, _alive_.”

The voice fades with the shutting of a door. She has no recollection of what it means until she catches a whiff of _that _brand of alto wine. It’s crude and makes her nostrils flare. The small action sends a wave of pain across her body. She surrenders herself to being still and encumbered. In time, with no visitors arriving, she passes out.

No dreams await her when she stirs again. Time passing is an enigma; she doesn’t know if it’s seconds or hours or days when her eyes flutter and the bed’s silken canopy comes into view. Her vision remains blurry for a time until it adjusts to the light. She can’t stand—and her arms wail in pain if she tries to sit up—but she can breathe and look around. Her eyes flicker across the chamber and she recognizes a bouquet of blood-red flowers on her night-table as roses. The longer she stares, the more she becomes certain they are sanguine-red. _This is his room. The Myriad Revelry Rooms of Realms or… His plane of Oblivion. _

The woman frowns. Her voice is a whisper when she says, “Why am I here?”

“You died! Nothing that can’t be discussed over tea—Or perhaps a drink for you, sir?” A Dremora holds the door open for a tall Daedric Prince to enter. The Dremora wears a butler’s coat; it's perfectly frivolous and features massive cuff links and smooth slacks. Sanguine, on the other hand...

If she wasn’t confused and in pain, she might have been amused at how Sanguine continues to romp around in full-Daedric armor. It’s both frivolous, unnecessary, and incredibly like him to wear an entire suit of metal in the comfort of his own realm. The suit of armor reeks of dangerous enchantments; the obsidian-hues of the metal are rendered underneath swirling, smooth glistens of red magic.

“Red wine. Bring two glasses, Sullivan. She’s going to need it.” Sanguine pats the butler on the shoulder.

The Dremora bows and exits without pause.

“I’m not drinking anymore.” Is the only thing Kara thinks to say. She peers at the Daedric Prince curiously. “I should be at Kynesgrove. Or—Or the cart—To Helgen—If I died in the game. Why am I here?”

“Well,” the Daedric Prince’s smile wavers when he looks at her. “About that—"

She frowns. “Why am I here? What happened?”

“Try not to freak out.” It’s concerning that a Lord of Revelry bothers to try and _comfort _her. Every flag in the book goes off in her head and though it pains her to sit up, she manages to with grunts and scowls. She begins to try and swing her legs off the bed when Sanguine’s eyes narrow. He’s by her side in an instant and blocking her. “Yeah, no, you can’t be moving like that—Oblivion, Kara, give yourself a break and take a nap for once!”

She realizes she can’t feel her _dov_ in her mind. There’s nothing encouraging her to fight back or resist his words. She meets his gaze and frowns. “You sound serious. I don’t like it. Where’s your fun mood gone and who am I murdering to get it back?”

“On vacation,” the Daedric Prince watches her.

“I want a good explanation,” but she relents and lays back in the sheets, pulling a blanket over her body. “Did my save file corrupt? Or—Did I wipe a world of existence? Green numbers pop up and flash? Blue screen of death happen? If it's the last one then we're in a lot more trouble than you think. Nothing beats a blue screen of death; even Sithis cowers at it's acclaim...”

“Not quite, Kara.”

Behind, the Dremora butler reemerges with an ebony platter of varying bottles of wine and mead. Two spectacularly cleaned glasses loom on the platter. Sullivan sets it next to the roses and clasps his hands together. “If you need anything during your stay—You have but to ask! Lord Sanguine, I will take my leave.” Instead of walking out the door the Dremora simply vanishes in red smoke.

Kara pauses, “…Why wasn’t he here last time?”

“He’s new. I traded a pretty penny for him to have the honor of joining my plane.” The Daedra responds. He picks through the different bottles and looks over their labels. His concentration on the type of alcohol makes the woman squint. “I’m pouring you a glass.”

“I told you I don’t—” but the glass is given to her anyways. She sniffs it and smells spices. “Why?”

“Because you’re gonna need it,” Sanguine pours himself a glass of red wine. The liquid is crystal clear with faint bubbles. He takes a sip, sighs, and looks at her. “You’re dead.”


	21. the most un-sanguine thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another choice is ripped from her; another life stolen away. she struggles to cope while her soul roams the myriad realms of revelry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the #1 reason why the major character death tag is used for this fic  
note theres also some talk about SEX in here but its not smut  
and domestic violence  
pls read with care
> 
> also thank u to the people who left kudos on this work i love you all  
technically now over halfway through with this fic... can u believe it??????

“That’s it?” She laughs. It’s a merry sound fitting the realm. The woman takes her glass of wine and gives it a complimentary sip; if Sanguine’s going to make such a big deal out of it then she’s going to indulge herself. It’s practically a special occasion.

Except for the part where she has to reset her gear. And finish the quests. And find Cicero and Veezara all over…

_Oh. No. No. No! They won’t remember me, will they? Will—Are they going to be reset? I don’t want them to be strangers! And what about Leorn and Alysoin? Do they have to go and suffer as prisoners for months? Will I get to experience the joy of being held captive again? Running out of Helgen looking like a charred chicken? _

With that Kara’s laughter dies and she swallows another gulp of wine. “Okay, that’s a problem. No, that’s a really big problem. I can’t—I can’t restart this time! Sanguine, Veezara and Cicero will have forgotten me! I’ll have to run through the Ratway again! I still smell rat feces in my hair and I’ve bathed multiple times!” The latter reasons aren’t as important to her but she wants to pace herself; Sanguine is a powerful Daedric Prince and he’s more than capable of helping her in a bind. He’s done it before—He would do it again. Right? _Right? You have magic or power or some sort of sorcery up your pauldrons. _

“Kara.” The seriousness in his voice makes her heart crawl into her chest. Her face pales as she stares at him. “Not your body on Nirn.”

“You lost me. Remind me what Nirn is,” She sinks into pillows and shoves her empty glass of wine on the night table nearby. “Do it quickly, because I’m beginning to freak out here.”

“I just told you to not freak out—”

_“I am not restarting!_ I’m not letting Veezara forget me! Or making Cicero fix his own wheels,” She grits her teeth. The act is painful, but she finds the wine has begun to wash some pain away. “I’m not forcing Leorn and Alysoin to be thrown into cells and be _tortured_ for eons so I can dilly-dally around Helgen with Alduin’s ugly face breathing flames and Ralof rambling incessantly about the Jarl of Windhelm’s greatness. I’m not. I refuse. I’m putting my feet down, both of them.” 

Sanguine stops drinking from a wine glass and picks up an entire bottle of mead. “Now I’m going to need this.” He turns to her.

She doesn’t like serious Sanguine. She wants fun Sanguine back. She wants Sanguine who takes the Dragonborn on a night of drunken pranks and revelry, Sanguine who makes her almost marry a Hagraven, Sanguine who would be the only creature in Oblivion to think that the middle of a bandit-dominated prison is an appropriate place to fuck. Good ol’ Sanguine who smells of mead and wicked smiles, the kind that amuse her rather than scare her. The Sanguine standing by the bed is _not _that Sanguine; she would go so far to say he could be a doppelganger of the Daedra if such a creature could exist.

“Okay. Listen, I’m gonna come off as condescending here but you have to understand even if I have to explain it to you like you’re two,” Sanguine sits by the foot of the bed. “You’re _dead_. I’m talking about the ‘you’ that comes from the world of consumers. _That_ you is dead. Understand?”

“Earth?” Kara’s mouth drops open and she pauses. “No—No, that can’t be right. That’s not true, Sanguine. I’m still here.”

“Kara—”

“No, no, I mean it! I’m right here, aren’t I? This realm is included in the virtual reality port of _Skyrim_. You go through a portal in Morvunskar and you give me a Sanguine staff. It’s in the shape of a rose. But I’m here—I’m not dead.” The woman states calmly. She nods. “I’m not dead.”

“But You are dead.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I don’t know when you decided to become the Daedric Prince of Real Talks and Lies but it doesn’t suit you.” She furrows her brows at him. “Sanguine—”

A crash rattles the chamber. Kara grimaces at the noise and moves to stand up but the Prince gives her a sharp look she reluctantly complies with. Though the Daedra moves to the door, not a second later Sullivan’s delightfully neutral form enters. A long, inky tentacle protrudes from the Dremora’s torso on his right pectoral. Acidic green sludge soils the once-pristine uniform.

“Sorry to interrupt, my Lord, but it appears Lord Mora insisted on sending a message. I intercepted it, _naturally,_ but there will likely be more in the future.” Sullivan pulls the appendage from his chest and the wound seeps with sanguine-red magic. The tissue begins to fill in but the fabric remains tattered.

_“Hermaeus Mora?”_ Kara raises both brows and eyes the Daedric Prince once the butler Dremora has departed.

Sanguine shuts the door. He’s quiet.

“Sanguine.” The woman states, louder this time. “Sanguine!”

“The you of your world is _dead,_ Kara,” He turns around and stares. “Your soul’s stuck here now. That _dov_, too. Probably.”

“Where is my _dov_?” Kara sits up and crashes out of the bed. She growls and hisses in pain; the woman is a mess on the floor from muscle atrophy. She grumbles when Sanguine plucks her and tosses her back in the bed.

“Your _Skyrim _body?” He doesn't know.

The entire conversation is too ‘much’ for Kara to handle. She finds her patience thinning; the woman mutters a quiet, “Tiid klo ul.”

“Shouts won’t work without your _dov.” _The Daedric Prince pats her head. He’s not amused when he adds, “And this is _my _realm. Time flows when I want it.”

She shoves his hand away. “No fun. You’re such a killjoy—”

The Daedric Prince’s eyes darken. “Stand.”

Control of her body escapes her. Kara begins to shriek in protest and pain as her body effortlessly—to it, the pain is inescapable to her—rises and sways. She can’t throw her arms out for balance and the woman’s weak legs give out on her. She’s caught by the Daedra before she hits the ground, but she’s not happy. “You didn’t tell me you could do that!”

“You’re not a consumer anymore. You’re a regular soul like everyone else in Skyrim, Kara. Oblivion, the only thing that’s special about you is your _dov _spirit and I’m not sure it even hung around—Lie down.” Sanguine directs. Kara’s body obeys; she climbs in bed and lies flat on her back. She observes him opening another bottle of wine and taking a sip. “For the rest of your life you’re gonna need to find ways to deal with Princes trying to seduce you. I can’t lock you in a bed forever. Even if it’s a tempting idea,” for a moment he returns to the devilish smile she knows too well. Then the smile fades. “Your Skyrim body’s in Riverwood.”

“Jesus, Delphine—” If she could _sit up_ her scowl might be taken seriously. The woman huffs loudly. “She found me, I remember now. Found me when Thalmor tried to run me through, found me when Sahloknir died. I… Sanguine, for the love of everything good in the world—Let me sit up. The bed’s too comfortable.”

“If you’re not careful it’ll suck you in. Keep you there. Unless I tell it not to.” Sanguine comments offhandedly. He waves a hand at her and control over her body returns.

“Thanks—And,” Kara sits up and growls. “Don’t do that again.”

“If you enter another Prince’s plane they will project their control over your soul.” Sanguine downs the rest of the wine. “Mortals are notoriously curious. It’ll get you killed. Or worse.”

“Can you stop being serious for one second?” The lady’s fists clench and she shouts. “I don’t like it!”

“Not until you believe it.”

“What? That I’m _dead_? How’d I have died on _earth_, Sanguine? My family’s medical history doesn’t include aneurysms or cardiac arrest! I didn’t choke on water! There’s not some kinda genetic disorder in my genes! You know nothing about me!” _Or my body. _But Kara holds off on the latter, regardless of the annoyance looming over her. She doesn’t flinch when Sanguine approaches and she stares up at him with stubborn, narrowed eyes. “If I want to live—I’ll live! Maybe Skyrim’s a cess of repeats and do-overs but earth’s not like that! I’m not _dead! _You’re implying I killed myself or—"

“Someone killed you?”

“That didn’t happen.” She growls. Her _dov _would be proud, she thinks. “People didn’t hate me. Not like that! I have more self-esteem than to be a complete asshole!”

“Your husband.” Sanguine offers.

“No.”

“You said it yourself, Kara—”

“No!”

“He’s hurt you before. He’s done it before.”

“Shut up,” She snaps and rolls over to face the other side of the room. “You don’t know him. He wouldn’t kill me. He’s a goddamn bastard but he wouldn’t _kill _me. He…”

_“Cares?_ You dying set off a chain of events.” Sanguine crosses his arms. He’s as stubborn as her, she realizes, and this conversation will likely continue into the Myriad’s equivalent of a night at this rate. “The Daedric Princes—We felt it! The connection tethering you to _your _world severed—"

“Then why am I here?” The woman hisses.

“I’m keeping you safe.”

“That is quite possibly the most _un-Sanguine_ thing you could have said. In precisely that tone. In precisely that voice. In precisely that… everything,” she pulls a sheet over her body and shuts her eyes. “I don’t think I believe you. Sanguine, I’ve had dreams of my world! And I haven’t had anything to suggest I’m dead—" The thirty-year old woman stiffens at her own words. She stops mid-sentence and feels her stomach gurgle uncomfortably. The woman’s face drains of color as she recalls. “No.”

_That was the scene of a crime. _She recants her most recent dream, everything from the familiar environment to the sheet-covered body bleeding into carpet. _The people there were wearing uniforms. They must have just found it. They were collecting evidence. It was so messy._

She finds herself thinking about it over and over again. The dream, the people, the corpse. She thinks about the stains and coagulated blood, the lighter past she now identifies as brain mush. She thinks of the headache that attacked her at the end of the fight with Sahloknir. She thinks about her husband’s rage and anger, about the red of his face when he’s angry enough to break down doors and drag her across rooms. She thinks about the night she lost the ability to escape the game. It was a night of sports. Her husband had gone out late. She had panicked once—and told Sanguine such—that she was scared of him coming home. She had scolded herself for not doing more or preparing in event his team lost!

She knows rates of domestic violence rise after sporting events.

But that’s not her, is it? She’s not a _statistic. _She’s…

_The walls had holes. He broke furniture. Or did I break it trying to… escape him? _Her head _aches _and throbs at the thought. She reaches to grab it and a shiver falls on her body. There’s not enough sheet to hide under. She doesn’t have a space to call her own. She can’t hide from the universe. It’s a sick, foul realization that leads the woman to push herself to the edge of the bed and begin retching the little wine she drank prior. She doesn’t stop when her stomach’s empty; she dry heaves and coughs and gags in _disgust. _

“Maybe the wine was a bad idea.” She hears from the side. 

If she wasn’t so horrified, she might have had something to say on that. The woman tastes bile in her throat by the time she can stop the act of vomiting and heaving. She lies on her side and grabs her head. Her hair feels strange and unfamiliar. She begins to poke and pull at her scalp, trying to disprove everything she remembers. Her brain is intact! She’s got her head on straight! Everything is okay, isn’t it? Her hair is there—It’s nice and short, she cut it during the bandit escape! She likes it that way. She likes it out of the way. It’s what she wants to be: out of the way of everyone. She feels a cold worse than Sahloknir’s frost shout crawl up her spine.

Everything hangs on her. She feels like dead weight. If the dream is real then she _is _dead weight. It means not just herself on earth and everything about _her _world, but it also means the disgusting Daedra can seize her. She’s another pawn or asset in their games; she’s a mortal they’ll hunt down and find and ensnare in magic and mayhem. She’s lost a part of herself and gained a whole new set of problems in seconds. It’s impossible to hold back the tears when her eyes begin watering. She doesn’t know how to grieve _herself_. She doesn’t know how to mourn another thing ripped from her control.

_He killed me. He always said he would. He said he would one day. He laughed about it. Why didn’t I leave him? _She clenches her fists until they’re white at the knuckles. Her body curls up into a ball. She’s not small enough yet; she’s not insignificant to the point of blocking memories of herself from the world. She wants to be like Veezara’s potion; she wants to disappear.

Someone knocks on the chamber door. Sanguine answers it. She doesn’t move. 

“Take the wine.”

“Bad idea, my lord?”

There’s nothing said after. Neither Daedra bother her; she’s too upset to notice when they both leave. She’s left alone in the room with soft silk sheets. No matter how hard she tries, sleep does not and will not come.

She had no choice in the matter.

The pain in her body overloads her. For a time—she can’t keep track of how long, everything feels like forever—all she does is let the pain engulf her senses and consume her. She’s a wreck of grief and anguish beneath the physical strain.

The bed doesn’t help. It reminds her too much of Sanguine, too much of the fact he is _right_, and she can’t stand to stay on it forever. When she has the strength, she steals the sheet off it and finds a corner to sit in. Her eyes shut and she lets her body rest while her mind remains active. There’s nothing to do besides _think _and cry. And when the tears run out—she thinks about nothing but the helplessness cursing her.

The music in the distance continues to play. The voices shift whenever a new bard begins a set, but she can’t recognize any of them. Her mind drowns in the soft, melodic noise. Though she considers using music to count time she recalls what one Daedric Prince said: time flows in a plane how its Lord wants it. If a Lord does not desire the passing of time, none shall come to fruition. Maybe it’s a lie, but she’s too tired to think about it.

Sometimes she tries to break the windows and run away. She doesn’t have the aptitude to crush it in her hands nor the energy to throw something hard enough at it but she tries. She uses the bouquet of sanguine-red roses. She uses a wine glass Sullivan missed on his way out. She uses the sheets of the bed, then the pillows, and then her fists. She collapses in front of it with her head in her hands. The world surges in her ears and she cries at the memories of the life taken from her.

She decides to tear apart the room. The mattress is shoved, the nighttables knocked over, and she scours through wardrobes and armoires. The contents of cabinents, of drawers, and of shelves are thrown to odd places. She sits on the ground when she’s done and stares aimlessly at the handiwork.

Nothing changes outside.

She recalls an _earth _fact about glass windows. It comes from a memory of her younger self in a car, riding with her mother. In the car she is the driver but also a student; her mother tells her about the art of keeping calm in an emergency. She tells Kara about breaking windows if a car lands in water: a person should have a tool to break through the glass. If not, they have to break the window before water pressure overwhelms the door to the point it can’t be opened and escape becomes significantly less likely. The memory tells Kara about the strength of a windshield and passenger door pane. In it—Her mom tells her to aim not for the _center _but the corners. It’s not inspiring.

_Maybe it was after all, _she thinks when the window cracks and comes undone.

The Myriad Realms is a peaceful place when the parties are far away. She finds herself walking weakly along a small, seemingly infinite stream. The sound of the water relaxes her. The wet stones feel good to her bare feet. She breathes in the aroma of mead and wine with long, slow inhales.

Torch bugs dance everywhere in the air. No matter where she goes there are more of the tiny, glowing creatures. She wonders if they’re a favorite of Sanguine, or if she’s a favorite of the small insects. She collects enough thoraxes from the ones wandering nearby to satisfy future potions if she ever makes it to an alchemy laboratory again. In her head, she finds a happy thought: Babette seeing the thoraxes and smiling politely at her efforts to help. The vampire wouldn’t say to no to them out of formality; the humor comes from the awkward smile she envisions Babette wearing at her pitiful attempts to be _helpful. _It’s not much, but she breathes again and begins another stack of thoraxes for her left pocket.

She finds many feasts across the realm. The food reeks of alcohol. Though she drank wine when first waking, she vows not to do it again. Her stomach growls in response but she ignores it and continues her quiet, silent journey.

What snaps sense into her is not alcohol or revelry, grief or joy, but a book. It’s bound in black material she can’t recall ever seeing before. When she turns it over in her hands it practically _sings _sweet, enticing songs into her ears. She stares at it and frowns.

“Ah, that would be another gift from Lord Mora! Excuse me, miss,” a Dremora calls to her. Obsidian-black hands grab the tome from her. When she turns, she sees the fact of Sullivan staring politely. “This is part of Lord Mora’s private collection! An exquisite specimen and personal gift! Naturally, I must accept it on your behalf!” A bound sword, born of grotesque red-and-purple magic, forms out of thin air in one of the butler’s hands. He skewers the novel in two.

The book screams. The howls and screeches are ungodly and the woman covers her ears with her hands and shouts back at it to no avail. The sounds continue as Sullivan stabs, stabs, _stabs _the book. The novel is finished when the butler cuts it down the spine into two uneven halves. Sullivan casts a red flames spell and the pages, covers, and bisected spinal chords go up in flames and green smoke. The screams are gone but they echo in Kara’s head as she stares in disbelief at the book-turned-ashes.

“Lord Mora has put in several requests for you to join him on his personal plane of Oblivion! Naturally, these requests were declined! Lord Sanguine has seen to it all other tokens of the Prince are dismantled in appropriate fashions.” The butler bows. His new uniform looks crisp and fits his form.

“Would that book have taken me there?” She asks him as they walk back together. “To that plane of Oblivion?”

“Yes, indeed! Naturally speaking, of course! It’s all part of the Daedric Lord’s thoughtful manipulation to acquire you in his service,” Sullivan states. “You may not possess the soul of a consumer but your spirit may be Dragonborn! A Dragonborn is a rare and powerful pet! The last Dragonborn to be captured was none other than Miraak, and he is _naturally _the First Dragonborn! If you were to join a Daedric Prince—It would be the second time an event has taken place in Oblivion!”

“Is that what Sanguine wants of me? My undying loyalty and devotion? I know he wants to fuck but,” she snorts. “He wants to occupy the beds of most mortals. Immortals, too, I imagine.”

“Lord Sanguine is a Prince of _stamina_! He must expend it in a manner befitting his sphere of influence. He seeks to bed many people and Daedra alike.”

“Does he want my loyalty? My soul? Sullivan—”

“Miss.” The butler bows his head politely, hands behind his back.

Kara stares. “…Can you tell me truthfully? Is your Lord after my soul?”

“Yes, of course. It is _naturally_ the natural progression of events between you two.” And with that her heart falls another mile in the booze-laden earth.

Maybe it’s been years. It could be. Sullivan tells her nothing after she asks him to take her to Sanguine. She follows the butler with her head bowed; the Myriad Realms are truly a bed of hedonism and indulgence. Wanton sounds and euphoric screams phase in and out of the background. She doesn’t blink twice when the two bypass a grand feast hall—one she had visited, once upon a time—and a great orgy is mid-stroke. She doesn’t comment on a trio of nude harpy-like creatures enjoying ogled stares from naked souls around them. She doesn’t flinch when a Dremora excuses his naked body from Sanguine’s bed.

She stares only long enough to tell _his _nude body what she came to say. “I’m ready to go to Skyrim.”

The bed has sheets again. She wonders if they crawled back into the room from where she first walked off. She doesn’t think of it as _breaking out_, technically the Daedra never said she had to stay there. Her mind wanted to leave and so she left. She would do it again for fun if she had the energy and optimism to not piss off a Daedric Prince in his own bedroom.

“Give me a minute, I’ll show you where it is.” Is the Prince’s response.

She looks away as he dresses not in the hulking Daedric armor she’s come to see him in, but in the shimmery black robes of Sam Guevenne. His Daedric form remains as is. It’s probably better than a Breton named Sam, anyways. He’s got a bottle of alcohol in one hand.

“I found one of Hermaus Mora’s black books on my hike.” Is the first thing either of the two say as he walks her out into the wilds of the Myriad Realm, to where a shimmering Oblivion Gate awaits.

Sanguine’s eyes fall on her but she keeps her gaze straight. “And?”

“I think I would have opened it if your butler didn’t turn it into a science experiment. He’s interesting.”

“He’s doing his job right then. Took enough souls; he better,” the Prince squints and peers into the gate. Sometimes Kara can see images flash through. She watches the Daedra lift a hand and begin to wave it in front of the gate. “Wait, this one doesn’t go to Riverwood. Yet.”

“Do you trade souls for fun?” Kara watches him with dull eyes.

“Not usually. We need our followers. I need my worshippers. Many good-looking worshippers,” the Daedric Prince growls at the gate. “Usually these just _go_ but it needs to go back to Riverwood _specifically _or your soul might drop outside your body.”

“So serious. It’s not like you.” She looks away.

“No, it’s not. And being sad and sullen is kind of what I expect from you right now but I don’t like it either.”

“Can you do me a favor?” The Oblivion gate snaps to life. It must be the correct one; she sees Sanguine grin ear-to-ear.

“What? Oh, yeah. Maybe—” 

“There’s a soul named Filre. I don’t remember his last name. But he died in Eastmarch, killed by Thalmor days before… all this happened,” The woman pauses. “He was nineteen. I don’t think he had a Divine he followed. He was a Redguard—I forgot if he cared for the story of Sovngarde. If he’s being traded around by the other Princes or wandering aimlessly in this world’s equivalent to purgatory—Please get him. I don’t know how other Princes treat their souls, but I know you—”

She’s a mess. She hiccups and it turns into watery tears that don’t fall but threaten to. The woman wipes her eyes in haste. She feels Sanguine watching her but ignores his gaze.

“But—Asking a Prince for a favor usually involves a trade.” Sanguine finishes his previous sentence. His brows rise expectantly.

“You really can’t do this without getting something in _return?_” She’s bewildered. Baffled. Annoyed. Those emotions cycle through and she’s left staring at him. The damn ruby eyes work again; she finds herself thinking thoughts she has zero inclination to act on. Absolutely _zero_.

The Lord of Debauchery holds up his hands. “Technically, no. But I figured it was worth a shot.”

“What is it?”

“Hm?” He blinks.

“What do you want?” She has half a mind to punch him if he says _soul_. It’s what she expects him to say; her fists clench instinctively.

“You’ll be a target in Skyrim. Thalmor, Daedric Princes, the entire continent of Nirn might as well be after you.” His hand lands on her head and he ruffles her hair slowly. “Which is why you need _me _to travel with you.”

“Oh. That’s it?” The woman frowns. “You want to be traveling buddies?”

“For a bit.” His shrug is entirely too innocent.

“I thought—”

“Kara,” and the name is said sincerely and sweetly and in a way that makes her heart speed up a little too fast for what’s _normal. _“Y’see, I may be a _Daedric Prince _but what I’m after isn’t always souls. Yours would be fun to have, sure! But there’s something a lot more _desirable _I want a piece of and it isn’t obtainable if I snatch up your soul.” He’s too close when he finishes talking and she doesn’t know if she wants him to back up or come closer. She decides on the first and pushes him away before _Daedric Prince Eye Sorcery_ gives her ideas.

“You can be my traveling buddy. But if you want sex you have to find a person on your own and get a room separate from mine. And the room can’t be adjacent!” She hisses the final sentence. “I don’t want my sleep disturbed because you’re railing a person’s ass. I mean it. I don’t care if you’re loud enough to wake up all the other patrons, but _do_ _not wake me up _with your rutting_._”

“You spent time thinking through my habits in bed.” Sanguine’s form twists and contorts into a slightly shorter Breton. The man Sam Guevenne grins at her. “So, good news. You’ll be in Riverwood. Probably. Bad news: I got to convince the scary blonde chick I’m not a stalker. This’ll be fun, huh?”

“Absolutely merry.” Kara shakes her head. But she’s amused instead of annoyed, and it’s a welcome change to her mind wanting to curl up and skewer itself into Oblivion. “See you.”

When she steps into the portal—Sam Guevenne’s grin is still present. He lifts up a hand and waves; the woman can’t help but wave back.


	22. don't say my name like that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> without her dov, she is no one special; luckily, she has plenty of time to think about her lost dov once she gets back to falkreath's sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello  
counting now i think there's actually (for realsies) like 14/15 chapters left  
there was less but this dov thing made me go back and mess with a couple so
> 
> please note in this chapter there is a part that STRONGLY implies a rape happened in the past (the part where leorns talking about his kills with gabriella, no actual rape)  
read with care  
ily all

She stirs from her sleep two days later. Sanguine’s intervention becomes evident the second she looks under the bed roll’s cover: Dremora tissue flecks her body like black pinpricks on a clear sky. She knows he kept her from the verge of death in her Skyrim body. She knows he’s guarded her soul to no end in the Myriad Realms. Part of his actions puzzle her. She doesn’t see what he has to gain beyond her soul but if the Daedric Prince can be taken to his word then he isn’t after her soul. When her head begins to throb in pain from the thoughts, she decides it’s time to rise. Control of her body comes easier than it did in the Myriad Realms. She throws her legs over the side of the bed and stands—

And topples to the ground. The ruckus causes someone to gasp awake in an adjacent room. She’s in one of the rooms in Delphine’s inn, and if she can put two-and-two together, she traces the gasp as coming from Delphine. What surprises her is the string of shouts and startled yells that follow in that room.

_“You again!” _Delphine roars at another.

By the time she gets to the room’s door and pulls it open she finds herself eye-to-eye with a delightfully grinning Breton. Sam Guevenne’s form is a lot less imposing and powerful than Sanguine’s Daedric body, but there’s something soft and appealing about the face of Sam Guevenne. Her eyes follow the Breton’s cheeks, his nose, and lips, and when she realizes she’s staring she averts her gaze and clears her throat. There is a different matter of discussion and she can’t stand small-talk more than necessary, “My _dov _is gone.”

“Your what?” Delphine calls from behind the two. The innkeeper Orgnar gives them all a look before Delphine waves him off. The woman strides up to Kara and pauses. “Your… Dragon spirit… Is gone? How can that be? You’re the Dragonborn—”

“I’m alright, thanks for asking.” Kara mumbles under breath.

The Blades’ member narrows her gaze. She points a finger accusingly at Kara. “Your pal here showed up and dumped _Divines _knows what kind of magic in your body. It kept you alive. If you’re alive, you’re good to go in my book. You healed, didn’t you?”

She’s quiet.

“Healed enough.” Sanguine says. The disguised Daedric Prince looks absolutely pleased with himself and his work.

Delphine shakes her head. “Enough to get out of my inn.”

“I can leave?” Kara blurts aloud. “You aren’t going to drag me to any dragon hunts, are you?”

“No. You made your words clear as you were tying me up and leaving me in the wilderness, Dragonborn. We aren’t friends,” Delphine’s hands clench. She exhales slowly. “But you spared my life. And, in a way, you stopped Esbern from getting his wrinkly ass killed. So I’ll spare yours. But we’re splitting paths; if we meet again it won’t be under these circumstances.”

“Esbern. Where is he?” Kara ignores all Delphine told her and begins to look around. Her short hair is frayed and she finds she repeatedly has to pull it to the side or behind an ear.

“He’s… out. Looking for a place to call home,” the Blades’ woman escorts both Kara and Sanguine to the door. “Sky Haven Temple, I reckon. He’s looking for those ruins. I don’t know what he might find, but… I hope he finds what he needs. What the Blades need. You weren’t much help to us in the end. If you’ve lost your _dov… _Then you are truly just a member of the Dark Brotherhood. You aren’t the hero Skyrim needs or deserves.”

“Guess I’m not.” The woman replies. Kara takes a pack of equipment when prompted by Delphine. She’s relieved to see elven arrows and a decent bow among the things handed to her. She doesn’t have armor, but she can resolve that on the way to Falkreath. She nods her head at Delphine and turns to go. “Thanks for not murdering me in my sleep. If you meet up with Esbern in the future—tell him I said goodbye.”

As the two walk away from Riverwood and out it’s gates, Sanguine’s human manifestation nudges Kara in the side. “Kara.”

She catches his eye and squints. “Yeah?”

“Your _dov_. Is it actually gone?” Sanguine keeps his hands in pockets of his robes while they walk. His shoulders are slumped and he looks fairly relaxed. She’s grateful he isn’t lugging around heavy Daedric armor; the black robes of Sam Guevenne are much more appealing for travel.

“I can’t sense it with me. It’s not in my—It’s like an absence in my soul. Does that make sense?” She bites her lip.

“Nope! But if it’s worth anything—You still register to me as having the soul of a dragon. Might be the case for other Princes, too.”

“Speaking of—” Kara stops mid-step and stares at him. It takes a moment for Sanguine to realize she’s halted. He turns around several steps down the road and she eyes him carefully. “I know I’ve told you at least once before that I’ve read the lore of Malkus Vile and Barbas. I understand the relationship of those two. Malkus Vile’s power was vast in the past; he created Barbas as a separate entity and as a result greatly weakened himself. I know I’m not a separate creation—But aren’t you using a lot of _your _power to keep me alive? I don’t understand the game you’re playing here, Sanguine. What am I worth to you if not my soul?”

“I thought we were playing the same game. Kara, have you been skipping turns?” The Daedric Prince huffs. He rubs his chin, stands up straight, and turns to resume walking. “It’s not good to cheat.”

“That’s not an answer—” Kara’s protests go without dignity. When she realizes he intends to march all the way to Falkreath by himself if she’s not with him, she picks up her pace and runs after the man.

Three hours and many drunken carols with the Daedric Prince later, Kara’s sober ass is tired of his off-note singing. She grabs at her mind for any topic that might quell the words of nonsense coming from Sanguine’s mouth.

“Do you know dragon speech, Sanguine?” The thirty-year old implores. A bird flies overhead.

The Prince shrugs. “It’s not my strong suit compared to wine. Or sex. I know _dov _means dragon, with _dovah _as the plural. _Dovahkiin _translates to Dragonborn. Alduin means… Something. It’s not my strong suit.” He smells like mead made with juniper berries, the kind Ralof babbles about at the start of _Skyrim_. He gives her a side-ways grin. “Trying to learn dragon speech, Kara? Who you wanna impress?”

“That’s not it.” The woman waves him off when the Daedra offers her a wine glass of red liquid. She doesn’t question where he gets the stuff from. “When I fought Sahloknir—Right before that—Alduin, the World Eater, First-Born of Akatosh, he said something I’m trying to figure out. It’s stuck with me. _Zeem mey tiid. _I know the word _tiid _stands for ‘time’ but I’m unsure the rest. He also used the word _Duin_. If I translate that by going off his name—It means ‘devour master,’ I think.” She runs into him when he stops walking. The woman scowls and steps back enough to stare at Sanguine when he turns around.

“Devour master. So they do know,” the Daedra eyes her carefully. “Devour master, Kara. What else is a synonym for ‘devour?’”

“Engulf? Absorb, maybe? Prey upon? Uh,” She rubs her head, feeling sheepish at being putting on the spot. “…Consume? –Oh. Oh. Consume. Consumer. Devour master.”

“So the World Eater recognized you as a consumer, huh? Interesting, good to know, all that lovely and important details,” Sanguine snorts. “Can’t say I know jack shit for those other words. You need a _dov _to tell you what that means. If not your _dov _then maybe another.”

“Parthuurnax is at the top of the world. He would answer. But the Greybeards want me to give them a horn and—I— I forgot to get it from Delphine! Damn it!” She whops herself in the forehead with her palm. The woman sighs and continues forward around Sanguine. When she hears him follow, she picks up her pace, intent on reaching Falkreath before the end of the year.

It takes over a day due to their late start and her tired legs. Sanguine offers to carry her at one point but she refuses.

The one night they make camp, with the stars of the sky basking in beauty overhead, she lights a fire with her _Flames _spell and warms her hands. Sanguine sits on a log nearby and watches her. She’s meticulous about skinning and gutting a rabbit. Ten minutes roasting on a spit and her stomach is full.

“I never told you thank you.” The woman pauses at her bedroll. She looks over her shoulder where Sanguine keeps watch by the fire. She meets his gaze and smiles faintly. “But thanks. For the whole… I don’t know. Keeping Daedra from hassling me more than you do? Keeping my soul around? My body in Skyrim alive? I’d have died a lot more if you weren’t here and I detest restarting.”

“Kara.” He’s close again, like he got up and walked to her in the blink of an eye. Sam Guevenne’s eyes are not the ruby red of Sanguine’s Daedric form but the Breton’s eyes still hold an unreadable expression she can’t discern. It’s magnetic, attempting to pull her in and closer but she’s as much a stubborn lady as she is a Dremora by this point.

“Yeah. Yeah?” When she looks away she’s surprised by a callous hand touching her chin and gently tilting her head to look back at him. She feels heat spread across her cheeks. “What is it?”

“You have something more valuable than a _dovah _soul,” His smile is entrancing even as a Breton. “I want a piece of it.”

When she blinks again, she finds he’s by the fire, back to her, as if the remarks never happened and he never moved. She feels her forehead for a fever and frowns when it feels normal. The only other thoughts she has that night are criticisms directed at herself for not cooking the rabbit thoroughly. She refuses to reflect on the increasing amount of Daedra in her thoughts.

The next day the duo finish the trek to Falkreath. They arrive at the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary approximately four in the afternoon. Though a few travelers comment on the strange duo when passing by, the two are not bothered. She waits for the Black Door of the sanctuary to whisper its question before Kara’s voice echoes, “Death, my brother.”

_“Welcome home, sister.” _The door opens.

She finds Astrid cornering her before she makes it down the stairs past the entrance hall. The blond-woman eyes the maybe-Dragonborn. “Kara.”

“Astrid.” The woman stiffens. “…Hello. Good to see you, mistress.”

“Who is this?” Astrid raises a gloved hand to Sam Guevenne.

“Do I get to answer that?” The Breton grins.

She steps forward and exhales. “He’s a friend. He’s—He can be trusted.”

“You brought more of them into this sanctuary?! And here I was hoping Veezara was wrong when he said you’d insisted on adopting whelps!” The word _whelps _makes Kara think of Companions and Arnbjorn. The Brotherhood’s leader has likely spent too much time with her husband lately.

“Alysoin and Leorn—Where are they?” The woman pauses and tries to peer around Astrid into what little she can make out of the waterfall chamber beyond. She shouts past Astrid’s shoulder, “Alysoin! Leorn! Did you two make it here safely? Veezara! If anything happened to them I have words—”

“Oh dear, sweet, lovely Listener has returned to us!? Kind, dancing Listener?!” There’s no further time for Astrid to scold her as a blur of red and black darts up the steps and wraps Kara in a tight, sturdy grasp. Cicero’s looks _dashing _on his head. His hair’s longer and he needs a shave but Kara doesn’t particularly care as he picks her up and spins her around the stairs. “Cicero would have gone out with the Listener! If poor, helpless Cicero only _knew _the Listener needed him! Cicero would have undone the bindings placed upon him by small Babette!”

“I’m happy you’re awake,” Kara breathes once she’s relinquished back to the floor. Cicero’s hands don’t move from her waist and she doesn’t give two damns. “I actually need to talk to you about—” Her eyes glance at Astrid’s stern expression. “—Well, I need to talk to you. About stuff.”

_“Stuff.”_ Sam comments in the background.

“Cicero knows many things about stuff! Many things, many, many! Cicero would gladly share all the knowledge of the world with Listener,” the jester is so devastatingly cheery that Kara can’t help herself; she smiles and beams and laughs as Cicero rattles on. “Listener must only know to say the word and dear Cicero will come running to help.”

For a moment the two do nothing but catch up. Cicero is energetic and _alive _and seeing his open eyes and grinning face makes the woman forget about Astrid, about Alduin, and about her death in another world. She’s lost in Cicero’s infectious smiles and hearty jokes, enamored by his terrible puns and repetitive babbles. Everything about the man makes her more awake and receptive to both his and her own emotions. For a moment, things seem _normal_. She feels like the sanctuary is her own and that this world is her world.

Astrid takes her wrist and pulls her down the stairs to the open waterfall room. Kara’s face pales at the sight Leorn not in Dark Brotherhood attire; the former Stormcloak holds a broom and looks like he woke up in rags. She doesn’t see Alysoin. Her heart aches at the thought that perhaps Astrid opted to get rid of the vampire altogether.

_No. Not another Filre. Not another. _She vows solemnly. She lets Astrid take her over to Arnbjorn’s forge. The man gives his wife a look and stops smithing. From up a deeper set of stairs comes the familiar sight of tiny Babette, followed by Festus. The smaller vampire and the old man are both a source of comfort; Astrid wouldn’t dare murder her in front of the older members. Humiliate, perhaps, but not _murder_.

“Cicero had one other question for the Listener, yes, a question, just one,” the jester croons from behind. Then he’s by her side and squirming to get between Astrid and herself. His face remains perky as ever and his eyes betray his mischief. “Did lovely Listener finally embrace calm Veezara?”

She was not expecting the question. She isn’t expecting it any more than she’s expecting Astrid to give her a hug and a pat on the back for a job well done. She swallows and ignores Astrid’s gaze purposely. “That’s… Not quite your business, Keeper."

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Cicero takes one of her hands in his and smiles. “Listener looks so happy at calm Veezara’s name! Happy, happy, happy! Isn’t Listener happy? Listener should only have happiness as Mother’s chosen. Besides, everyone knows Listener longs for face scales.” It’s sincerely said.

Kara’s face lights up with heat. She makes a point of studying her feet rather than risk catching line of sight with anyone in the room._ How does everyone know about that?_

Astrid’s growl ends the unspoken tension. She shoves a finger at the Dragonborn and hisses, “You went against _my_ orders. How do you explain yourself, Kara? Dumping a contract I give you on another does not comply with what’s asked here. The rules are simple. What I say goes. I act only in the Brotherhood’s best interests!”

In the background, somewhere, she hears _Sam_ whistle sharply. Her fists clench.

“If I recall—You accepted the amulet and letter from Motierre and subsequently praised me for my dedication.” It’s Veezara who speaks; the Saxhleel pulls himself from the waterfall’s lagoon. His uniform is sopping wet when he walks over but the Argonian seems content with it. He stops a foot away and frowns at Astrid. “She gave me orders to return those to you at any means necessary. Even the cost of her own life. I understand it is frustrating but perhaps we should approach this situation from more than one perspective, Astrid.”

“I mean—Even if she did good—The girl’s got to know the rules.” Festus crosses his arms. “You get work, you kill, and you do it often. I don’t doubt she had good intentions but there’s got to be some order to the way of things here. Especially if we got new and old traditions meshing.”

“Kara.” Leorn smiles at her from nearby, broom proudly in hand. He looks well-fed. Kara’s eyes soften and she nods in acknowledgement before turning back to the Brotherhood.

“I am not assigning you any new contracts for a time, Kara. You have to think about what you do. What if a different contract came in that specifically required Gabriella’s expertise? It would sit and wait with dust across the shelf before we could get to it. We have a reputation to uphold!” The woman’s eyes narrow and she eyes Kara with scrutiny. “Do you care about the Dark Brotherhood? Or seeking fame and fortune for yourself?”

“I care about the Night Mother.” Kara mumbles under breath. But she clears her throat and straightens upright to look Astrid square in the eye. “I care about my family here. The Dark Brotherhood is everything to me. I acknowledge I made choices that were wrong. I went behind your back. I pulled Gabriella and Veezara into this mess. I accept the punishment of my actions, Astrid. So,” she pauses and frowns. “Let’s not… I don’t want us to be angry at each other.”

Another whistle from Sam Guevenne. She’s going to dump him outside the sanctuary and lock herself in a room for a day after this, surely. Perhaps Cicero’s room. The jester has nice accommodations and plenty of space on his bed for two.

As the group disperses, Kara greets Veezara with a small smile. Cicero remains loyally at her side but for a brief second Kara and Veezara embrace. It’s short and sweet but it means everything to the woman. She gives his hand a squeeze and pulls back in time for Cicero to cut in from the side, “Lovely, lovely Listener—What did you want to talk about?”

She blinks. “Oh. Uh. Later. Give me an hour or two—I need some space to… Sort a few things out. I’ll meet you in the Night Mother’s sanctuary when I’m done.”

"If you take too long lovely, devoted Cicero will have to oil Mother before we speak!" Cicero’s hug involves wrapping arms around her _and _Veezara.

It’s amusing to her. Veezara begins to tense after the ten second mark. Veezara takes her by the wrist and pulls her over to Leorn, explaining as he goes. “Astrid would not accept new members until Gabriella returns. She wants her to judge them. The dunmer has always provided interesting feedback on a recruit’s potential.”

“I cook, I clean, I sweep. It isn’t a bad life, really.” Leorn’s crooked grin is encouraging. “I got one arm and too much time on my hand, anyways. You ever see a man like me tryin’ to scrub dishes? I’ve got real creative, I have, Listener.”

“Where is Alysoin?” Kara looks around the room. For a moment she wonders if the vampire hides underneath the waterfall. She dismisses the thought after remembering vampires despise running water.

Luckily, Babette steps in and prods her gut. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing back a _vampire, _Kara. You said you would get me a snack. The old man isn’t durable enough to feed on and I can’t eat a _vampire. _I’m not that kind of lady.”

Leorn’s eyes widen at Babette’s tiny fangs poking through when the latter talks. He backs up and inches closer to Kara. “You—You mean—Those times you were nice—It’s all ‘cause you wanted to eat me?”

“Don’t take it personally. I wouldn’t have drained all your blood.” Babette huffs. Her dark eyes return to the Listener. “Now, then. I’ve done my best to help keep this new vampire’s appetite satiated but it’s hard when there’s not a fresh supply of food. If you could bring us both two snacks it would keep our hunger low and hopes high for a time.”

“…I’ll see what I can do.” The Listener complies with a sigh. _Nothing better to do, anyways. _She’s happy enough Astrid hasn’t murdered her rookies on the spot. She pauses when she notices Babette giving Sam Guevenne a strange look.

“Who is your friend?” Babette asks.

“No friend of Molag Bal.” The Breton grins.

“I don’t like him. Either of _them_. Don’t let him touch my stuff, Listener.” Babette turns and walks up the stairs. “Oh, and Young Alysoin is helping me with alchemy ingredients. You know where I am if you need us. Excuse me, Festus…” The small assassin pushes past the old man and disappears up the stairs.

“Now, now. You can’t expect me to up and disappear too, can you? I took care of your little jester’s problem,” Festus grins as he waltzes down the stairs and gives Kara a slap on the back. “Since you got the time—I got the gems. Pick off a few wildlife, fill ‘em up, and bring them back to me when you’re done. We’ll call it even after five little ones or a big one, Kara.”

“Yes, Festus. I would love to, Festus.” Her shoulders slump and she watches the senior member part. The room feels empty with only herself, Veezara, Sam, Leorn, and Arnbjorn hanging around. The latter doesn’t look happy at the company.

“Veezara! I need you and Arnbjorn.” Astrid calls. “There’s a special contract that requires your skills and I want to go over it in full detail.”

The Saxhleel gives the Listener a smile before he bows his head and hurries up the stairs leading to the entrance hall. Arnbjorn doesn’t offer any a smile when he follows.

Kara turns to Leorn. “I wouldn’t mind trying some of your cooking soon. Preferably soon as in the next hour. I’m parched; it was a long walk here.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Listener. You leave it to Leorn!” The old soldier nods and runs off for the kitchen.

“Quite a party in here. Makes you forget you’re assassins for a moment, huh?” Sam walks to her side and gives her a grin. “You feel normal with this kinda family?”

“They’re the best family I have. The only family I have now, actually. I won’t be seeing my other one again.” The Listener’s reply is curt and melancholy. She doesn’t give Sam any time to thrown in further comments before she begins to tackle the list of things to do.

She finds the wildlife outside the sanctuary first. Festus provides the spell tome for soul trapping and the empty soul gems. It’s messy business but she scores four elk souls and a bear soul over the remainder of the day. By the time she’s done it’s evening and the stars loom between pockets of clouds. Her shoulders are heavy but she pushes herself onward.

Trying to kidnap live victims it tough but knowing she can keep them alive gives her motivation. She looks for victims that won’t be noticed when they’re gone: the lonely, the beggars, and adventurers who seek fun a little too far from home. Sam Guevenne doesn’t follow her for kidnappings; she brings each poisoned, bleeding body to the sanctuary on Gravel’s back, tied like a pack to a mule. She can only acquire three individuals for the vampires of the Brotherhood, but Babette gives them each a once-over and nods in approval.

“Off the hook for now.” The small vampire grins innocently.

Nothing else happens over the next day. Kara spends most of it sleeping and getting re-equipped, but even in the fine shrouded armor of Gabriella’s handiwork she doesn’t feel quite like herself. She lacks a piece of who she is. She misses the _dov _that is both a portion of her soul yet wholly separate and individual. She yearns to find the stubborn, devastating spirit and glue it back into place. Her lack of _shouts _wears more on her than it needs to me; she struggles to adapt to not using _laas _of the Aura Whisper shout or _tiid _of the Slow Time shout. Those two are highly influential to her work. She finds herself constantly saying the words under breath but suddenly remembering she can’t use them without the _dov _spirit.

She doesn’t call herself Dragonborn in this time.

Gabriella returns to the sanctuary on the Listener's third day home. The dunmer waltzes in one morning with new scars and annoyed eyes, yet the smile on her face is every bit as telling of her successful contract. Astrid gathers several assassins in the waterfall cavern to hear what went down.

“Got framed for a murder, chucked in a mine, and narrowly avoided execution. Please, hold your applause, I didn’t bring home any unicorns.” The lovely woman laughs. A few chuckles join in; Kara is one of them. Gabriella pauses and looks at Astrid. “Oh, who’s the new guy? Food for Babette?”

“No!” Leorn protests.

“I think not. He’s not sturdy enough for multiple feedings and our Listener is attached like a mother hen to a chick with him and Alysoin.” Babette covers her mouth with a hand and snickers.

The Listener resists a sigh. No one misses the snort that comes from Sam Guevenne in the back of the room. Kara can’t help but note that Gabriella tries _very _hard not to look at the Breton. She doesn’t push the issue.

“Babette, fetch Alysoin. Leorn—Come here,” when the two are front and present Astrid gestures Gabriella forward and says. “I need you to judge their potential. The Listener—_Kara—_Wants to make them official members of our family. I’m not so sure.”

“Yep.” Gabriella nods. She nods again. The third time she nods she crosses her arms for good measure and shrugs. “Yeah, they’re both natural-born killers. Hey, you, old guy. Who you murder? Anyone good? I’m expecting something interesting so don’t let me down.”

“Me?” Leorn stammers a second. He clears his throat, straightens up, and salutes the dunmer with his hand. “Leorn Stillshine, m’am! Former member of the Stormcloak army! I killed many an Imperial in my time before willingly deserting the Stormcloaks and fleeing for my life.”

“I don’t want to hear about those kills, though. Anyone can… How to put it… Kill under strained circumstances?” Gabriella shrugs amicably. “I can sense there’s a story under those wrinkles, old man. _Leorn Stillshine._ I get to thinking it has something to do with you being a deserter of Ulfric Stormcloak’s army. You don’t see a lot of Nords running from a cause once they support it. What makes you special, Leorn?”

“I killed my fellow Stormcloaks, m’am.” Leorn nods sternly.

“There we go! See, Astrid? I told you—You can never go wrong with me,” Gabriella moves a hand to her hip. She grins. “Oh, wow. Alright. How do I put this… Oh, I know: why did you murder your comrades? Lost glory on the field? Too drunk? Tell me the details.”

“They,” and Leorn hesitates. The man with a soft white beard and big eyes looks round the room while Gabriella nods encouragingly. He swallows and corrects his posture. “They were in the middle of committing a criminal act. Against a traveling Khajit... Claimed since she was a _'cat'_ it was okay, that no not-Nords get to walk around Skyrim and get away with it. I’d prefer not to say more, it was a terrible ordeal for the traveler. But it happened. I heard the cries, saw their guilt, and I bashed them in the head with my club. Ran away after. There’s no place for honor if you have rats like that to serve you.”

Gabriella nods slowly. “Alright. There’s one story, Astrid. And the other—You are Alysoin?”

“If you have trouble pronouncing the name then call me Abigail.” Alysoin clasps her hands at her waist and nods.

“A vampire! That’s pretty neat. What’s your take on murder, Aly?” Gabriella comes up with her own nickname for the vampire in seconds. The dunmer stares expectantly.

“I’ve killed many times on accident. During my first feedings I went a little overboard,” the vampire nods. “I’ve killed in self-defense before, too. I can do it again. I probably will have to one day and I’m willing to accept that.”

“But we aren’t here for _feedings._ We’re here for something else. Something more. You feel it inside yourself, don’t you? I know you do, Alysoin—I’ve only met you but it’s coming off you in waves. You look ready to burst with it.” Gabriella’s eyes narrow and she grins, showing off surprisingly fang-like teeth. “And don’t waste our time talking about the _Dawnguard. _All of us in the night sky know about those losers. You got to pick one off from time-to-time.”

“She’s a vampire?” Kara mumbles under her breath, confused. _Is she? All this time? Did she just hide it behind those beautiful smiles and stunning eyes? Am I just seeing things? _

“I,” Alysoin hesitates.

Gabriella’s smile is encouraging, probably, but not to the Listener.

The vampire fidgets under Gabriella’s stare and finally shares. “When I was among the living—As a young child—Another girl in my town said I was selling myself around. It ruined my reputation for years. A few years later—When we were out one night, by a bridge—I remembered what she did. It didn’t matter that we had grown close as friends. All I saw in that moment was the hurt she put me through. So I pushed her off.”

“So you pushed her off!”

“They never found her body, but scraps of her clothes were fished up from the riverbed and found in the bellies of salmon three months later.” Alysoin clears her throat. “I don’t think I regret it—But I also don’t think I planned to kill her. It was… The moment presented itself. I saw revenge. I carried it out. I didn’t speak a word.”

“And that, Astrid, is precisely why these two will both make great killers. They see something, they act, they kill, they shut up and move on. Perhaps a little rough around the edges, sure, but it’s nothing you haven’t worked with before.” Gabriella’s smile is sufficiently confident enough to make both Leorn and Alysoin exhale in relief. The dunmer tilts her head to one side. “Don’t think of them as Kara’s. That’s not who any of us are, yours? Or Kara—Cicero’s?”

The Listener is _very, very, very _grateful her lovely jester is in another part of the sanctuary. She knows in a heartbeat he would claim Gabriella’s words as true and cite the word ‘literally’ as his source.

“No. You’re right; I don’t view you as my little hens of a henhouse. We’re each equal members of this Dark Brotherhood.” Astrid taps her chin. Her eyes narrow and she turns to Alysion and Leorn. “Alright. You’ll be given permanent uniforms and a place among our family here, both of you. Do not repeat Kara’s mistakes. She may be the Listener of the Night Mother—But I am the leader of this sanctuary. What I say goes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, m’am!” Both vampire and soldier alike sputter the reply.

“Gabriella, a word.” Astrid takes the dunmer aside but not back into the entrance hall. It’s an obvious ploy to share something _private _but not actuallykeep it under wraps. Astrid wants her to hear something and so, the Listener decides, she will hear it. Astrid’s smile lingers as she looks Gabriella up and down. “Look at you—A mess. You said you got put in a mine? Framed for a death? If I wasn’t desperate I’d keep you home, dearest. But glory awaits, Nazir's out, and Festus and Babette are in charge of handling training the new kids. I need you to take something to the Thieves Guild in Riften and get it appraised for me.”

The amulet Amound Motierre gave to _her _and Veezara flashes as it is passed from Astrid’s hands to Gabriella. Gabriella quirks a brow and turns it over in her hands.

“Delvin Mallory. He’ll be in the Ragged Flagon, in the Ratway. It’s a smelly place but full of nasty surprises so keep your guard up,” Astrid instructs her. She puts both hands on Gabriella’s shoulder. “He’s the one man we need for this. Bring Mallory this amulet. Say it’s from me. Find out everything you can—Sell it if he’s willing to buy. He’ll offer you a letter of credit—that’s fine. Delvin Mallory and the Dark Brotherhood have a _history_. He can be trusted. Understand?”

“Here I was hoping to crochet into the evening, Astrid. Very well. I’ll leave in an hour.” Gabriella tucks the amulet safely into a pocket and pats it firmly. She waves at the Listener as she passes by and heads for deeper into the sanctuary.

For a moment Astrid’s eyes lock with the Listener’s. Kara frowns, but she makes a point of turning away and being the ‘submissive’ one of the two. _There’s no point in digging myself a deeper hole. She’s pissed at me. I need to find ways to spend my time until I’m forgiven and this is a thing of the past. I should… Find something else to do._

She decides to head for Cicero next. He’s in the sanctuary, faithfully tending to the Night Mother’s coffin with all the adoring fingers the jester can muster. She counts eight jars of preservatives and spices among the keeping tomes that are sprawled open on pews facing the casket. Kara smiles and clears her throat when she enters. “—Cicero, do you have a moment...?”

“Oh, oh, Listener always deserves a moment! But poor Cicero is in the middle of preparing to oil Mother! Can kindly Listener return when the hour is right? Mother does not wait for her oils! She’s dead. She can’t wait.” The jester explains the latter sentences without an ounce of humor. He gives her a charismatic bow and wave as she ducks back out of the room.

When in doubt—Sanguine.

Kara finds the man outside the sanctuary. The Daedric Prince has momentarily turned back into his disgustingly handsome self. The dark robes on his figure seem to hug every aspect of him _tighter _when he has taken the manifestation of a Daedra over Sam Guevenne the Breton. Sanguine cracks a wicked smile and waves when he spies her emerging from the sanctuary. He pats a boulder next to him and she sits.

“What do I do?” The Listener asks.

“No clue.”

“Thanks for the help.” She holds her head in her hands and grimaces. “I think—I think Astrid gave Veezara and Arnbjorn a contract three days ago. I can't practice my Shadowscale training with Veezara."

“Sucks to hear. You want some?” The offering comes in the form of a bottle of mead. The label hints at a Black-Briar origin.

She shakes her head. “No. Not drinking, remember?”

“Suit yourself.” Sanguine cracks it open and takes a long swig. His throat rumbles in pleasure when he finally finishes it. “You’re usually more talkative than this, Kara.”

“I feel lost,” the Listener admits with a frown. She drums her fingers along her rocky seat. “—You know. I thought coming back here things would just call to me. I’d know what to do. The unholy matron hasn’t said a word since Amound Motierre’s contract. I can’t get contracts from Astrid. I suppose I could try and find a fourth person to be Babette’s and Alysoin’s thralls but—Oh, I hope I don’t need three more because Gabriella might be a vampire. I go through so many potions and poisons trying to sedate and incapacitate suitable victims.”

“Maybe,” and for a moment the Daedra’s voice is low and serious. He gives her a craft grin. “You should spend less time looking at others for shit to do. Take a look at _yourself. _That’s what I do when I’m bored.”

“By the Void’s pitch,” the Listener’s eyes widen. “I could look for my _dov_, couldn’t I? I mean—It has to be somewhere here. Right? You said my soul comes off as a Dragonborn! That’s how you and the other Princes view me! The _dov _has to be in Skyrim!” She’s on her feet in seconds and grinning ear-to-ear. Her eyes hold a delighted sparkle. “I just… I need to figure out a way to find it—Or call it—You know, a dragon comes when their name is shouted—It happens in most playthroughs—With a dragon whose name I forgot—But it does, I promise!”

Sanguine stands, dusts off his robes, and finishes his bottle of mead. He chucks the empty bottle to the side and ignores the sound of shattered glass. His eyes flicker toward her and he takes a step forward. “Okay. Let’s pretend I was _trying_ to go with that train of thought! What do you wanna try for finding this _dov_?”

“I have no idea.” The Listener frowns.

“Think, Kara! You got a brain, right?” His hand ruffles her hair. She stares at him from beyond her bangs. “Don’t give me that look—It was a compliment.”

“Your hand.”

“Right, right,” the Daedra pulls it back and shrugs. “Go over what Alduin said to you that one time. During—Uh, what was his name? You said Sahloknir?”

“That’s correct,” the Listener pauses. “He said a lot of things I didn’t really catch. What I remember sticking out was the phrase _‘Duin, zaam mey tiid.’_ I have no idea what that means beyond you pointing out _‘duin’_ probably translates to the _dovah _version of ‘consumer.’”

“That I did, that I did, give me all the credit,” He’s full of cheeky smiles. Sanguine tilts his head to one side and watches her. “You said _tiid _means time, yeah? You tried shouting it in my plane. Didn’t appreciate that, for it’s worth.”

“I thought you were trying to seduce me and steal my soul.” The woman rubs the back of her head. She looks away but finds Sanguine’s ebony-black hand move her head to look back at him. It’s becoming a habit of his to do whenever she breaks eye contact and she’s not sure how she feels about it yet. “What?”

“Think, Kara.”

“About you seducing me??” Her brows furrow and any attraction she has to his damn Daedric Eye Magic withers. “Sanguine, this is serious—”

“I don’t do _everything _with intention to seduce you!” the Daedra sounds nearly as irritated as her.

“Okay, okay.” Kara exhales and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I really, _really _want my _dov _back. I don’t even know it’s name and it’s lost out there.”

Sanguine doesn’t say a word. He has a stunning smirk on his lips.

The Listener frowns. “You don’t think it’s a name, do you? What Alduin said? That’s not possible, is it?”

“I don’t know, is it? You’re talking to a Daedric Prince here, not a Dragon God,” the Daedra pats her head and smiles. “Perhaps you thought it's a phrase because all you ever do is _shout_. Maybe it's a name. _Zaam-Mey-Tiid._ Something-Something-Time. You going to try it?”

“I need to. _Zaam-Mey-Tiid.”_ She shuts her eyes and shivers. Her hands reach up to take his off her and though she succeeds in doing so, she doesn’t let go of his hand. He’s incredibly warm and she feels incredibly cold in comparison. Without thinking, her grip tightens on him and for a moment she’s lost in the heat he has to offer. All her mind thinks of is how nice he feels close to her. Part of her doesn’t want to move away; she feels drawn to him like a magnet, like she _needs _to keep touching him.

It confuses her. She snaps her eyes open and blinks. In the mess of things she finds she moved his hand to her cheek and held it there, basking in the heat of a Daedra. But her mind reacts now; she snaps upright and drops him and backs off. Her eyes refuse to meet his because she knows if she looks at him she may not be able to stop herself next time.

“Sorry.”

“Kara—”

“Don’t say my name like _that.”_ The woman says quietly. She shuts her eyes to avoid his gaze. She knows its lingering on her, that he’s seeking her out. The Daedric Prince is too powerful for her to stand near without the tethering of a _consumer _to her soul.

She’s like any other soul, she thinks. She’s got no _dov, _got no _consumer _quality, she’s got only herself and what tricks of the trade she picked up since the start of the playthrough. She doesn’t want to open up like that. It’s taken long enough with Veezara, it’s taken and continues to take longer with Cicero, and she doesn’t know if she can handle risking a _Daedra Lord, _a _Daedric Prince, _the _Lord of Debauchery _and ruler of a plane in _Oblivion _into her heart. It’s a frustrating train of thought.

_Things were so simple, _She thinks, back when they first met and she wasn’t _Kara _but a Dragonborn named _Dragonborn _and a consumer who messed with everything and everyone for her own satisfaction.

_Things were easier, _she recalls, when the only thing she had to associate with Sanguine was his lewd remarks or alcoholism and not the serious, observant traits he came to display for her.

_I’m afraid of myself going forward, _the Listener breathes, and it is true, because the biggest thing holding her back now is the fear of rejection, of loss, and of pain. She fears pain the most; she’s gone out of her way to avoid even the slightest trigger of it so far that she’s boxed herself in to avoid the entire world.

_I… _And she can’t finish the train of thought because _that one _strays too close to the thoughts of Cicero, of Veezara, and of Sanguine. She can’t finish the thought because it’s a reminder of her own fragility. She can’t finish the thought because it tells her how much she’s come to care for a jester, a Shadowscale, and a Daedric Prince of Revelry. She can’t finish the thought because finishing it means she acknowledges the uncooked hare was not to blame for what occurred on the trip to the sanctuary. She can’t _stand _the thought because she _knows _exactly what he means by the words he’s told her in the past. She knows what he desires because the months of travel with him have both driven her up a wall and given her a sense for what he’s like, what he’s after, and how he thinks.

She knows he's aware a piece of her heart belongs to him. She knows he’s aware and waiting—hoping?—that she’ll give it to him. She knows it’s not normal for a Daedric Prince to care for a soul _like that_, and she knows it’s because of the connection they’ve come to had that it’s even possible.

Because Sanguine didn’t simply _use _his power to heal her. He split it with her, _gave it _to her, wrapped it up in tissue and flesh and breathed it into her soul when she was dying—_multiple times. _He took a part of the power that made him a Daedric Prince and he put it on her head like a paper crown.

She knows the lore of Malkus Vile and Barbas.

She knows how much a Daedric Prince can fall to bestow new life.

And when she finally looks at him—all she can see is everything he keeps doing for her, claiming out of amusement or claiming it as no big deal. 

“You’re in my head,” The woman states softly, as much in fear of what could happen as anger at herself. “Get out. Get out.”

“Do you want me to?” He’s breathtakingly beautiful in everything he says and does and do and it _irritates her _that she doesn’t have control over the heat in her cheeks or the clench of her fists.

“I don’t know anymore.” Kara whispers. “I don’t know you anymore. You’re not who I thought you were. I thought I could read you. I thought—”

And part of her knows there is no _Daedric Eye Magic. _Part of her knows that he’s full of bullshit at how aggravatingly clever he is playing off her own inability to look away. And part of her wants to continue the ruse, to say it’s all part of a Daedric Prince’s power. And part of her wants to turn and look away before the red eyes draw her close enough for her to kiss him because she can’t stand how inviting he is and how far away she is even when she's standing right next to him.

She doesn’t know what she wants anymore.

_My dov. _Is the one thought that slips through her head. _My dov. I want my dov. _

And the thought of her _dov, _of the one possibly called _Zaammeytiid,_ is what spurs her to break eye contact and look away. She clears her throat and keeps her gaze locked firmly on the ground as she states, “I’m going to try calling Zaammeytiid. If it works—If there’s a fight—Don’t try to interrupt. I mean it.”

“Kara, _please_—If you’re about to die, I will.”

“Gods, stop saying that.” She curses under her breath in frustration, in anger at herself. The woman doesn’t say anything further as she saddles up Gravel and climbs unto the horse. She keeps her eyes looking forward at the sky as she rides out into the wilderness in pursuit of a _dov _she calls her own.


	23. zaam mey tiid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she finds her dov but her dov finds a dragon.

She rides until Gravel refuses to gallop. When the horse’s pace lessens to a simple walk she finds the biggest clearing she can and ties him off to a tree on the side. She slowly pats the horse’s neck and apologizes for pushing him so hard. She knows why she wants so much distance; it relates back to the Daedric Prince that follows her around singing songs off-key and grinning wickedly. Sanguine may or may not follow her into the wild lands, but she knows if she drops to the brink of death he’ll be at her side in a heartbeat.

Her mind is too conflicted to find that a good or bad thing and her thoughts spiral when she tries to address it. It’s easiest to focus on the _dov _problem at hand; she is a _dovahkiin _without the dragon and her inability to shout wears on her. She waits until Gravel is calm before leaving him and wandering into the open plain. She stops mid-way and looks up at a bright, clear sky. The wind whips through her short hair; what the world lacks in weather it makes up for in gusts. Somehow, the gales encourage her; she closes her eyes and calms the dozens of thoughts invading her mind. She lets her breaths still. She sucks in a breath and calls to the sky, the world, all of Mundus—

_“Zaammeytiid!” _

And it comes.

A great spectral beast lurches across the horizon and barrels down into her. She dives out of the way in time for it to crash into the spot she stood in. As her vision clears, the Listener stares into the glowing eyes of an ethereal white being: a draconic body, long and slim, but one with a mane and whiskers and the most vivid, golden accents lining its scales. It’s a ghost of what dragonkind could be, a size that doesn’t rival Alduin but puts Sahloknir to shame, and it’s long, beak-like jaws remains tense as the two’s eyes stare into one another. Her heart jumps into her throat and she finds the creature stands on its back legs and bellows at her.

_Zaammeytiid… _

_“You are unworthy of my aid, Dragonborn!” _Though each word is spoken crisp and clearly to her ears—the Listener finds she understands the _dov _without trouble. A part of her brain acknowledges the fact her _dov _does not speak in common tongue. _Zaammeytiid _talks solely in the speech of dragons but her mind hears it as if the two’s language is common ground.

Kara backs up from the _dov_. She can feel the aggression and hostility radiating from the beast. The ground doesn’t seem to shift or change despite the dragon’s large size and lengthy tail whipping side-to-side across the grass. She swallows and holds her hands up to indicate she means no harm. “I know—I know! But I need you!” She tries the approach of logic first, pointing out the prophecy of the Dragonborn with shaky hands. “We have to fight _Alduin_ together or—”

_“Or what? Tiny mortal! You think I don’t know what the World Eater is capable of? You are a wretched woman to throw it in my face! I have been dragon longer than you a Dragonborn! Longer than your lifespan! Longer than many!” _The dragon rears on its legs and bellows a loud, long cry of anguish. _“You are nothing without me! I am everything without you!” _

“But _Alduin_—”

_“Let him reign! Let the World Eater devour this world! I do not care about the suffering of man!” _The _dov _hisses and begins to stalk forward.

She readies a spell of Ice Spikes in one hand and unsheathes a Daedric dagger in the other. The blade doesn’t respond like it normally does; there is no eager pulse for blood. She’s okay with that.

_“You who enslave me over and over! Thrown into the currents of time! You are not worthy! None of you are! But fate has deemed it so!” _The dragon roars at her; it’s enough to make her body tremble.

She exhales sharply and backs up. It’s a struggle not to outright attack but she knows it’s a fight she likely won’t win. Besides, she doesn’t want to resort to violence as the answer to all her problems. Kara’s eyes never shift from her _dov_, she remains focused on the grand ethereal dragon as it stalks her across the plain. She notes that the grass doesn’t crunch or bend under its feet, and she recognizes Gravel doesn’t begin to buck or rear or whine in fear. The horse is brave.

_“Zaammeytiid! _Stop this! If we cooperate perhaps we could find a way to free you of this—”

_“You could never! You, so small and weak and useless! Meat on bones! You who cannot even shout dares suggest you have the power to aid me in my state?” _The _dov _snarls and launches itself at her. It’s beak-like jaw unhinges and a gale of frost shoots forth as it bellows, _“Frost! Cold! Freeze!” _

“The one time I need to know the words—” Kara curses under breath. She knows it is the full-length shout the _dov _uses; the icy devastation left in its wake narrowly misses her as she throws herself to the side and crawls away. She scurries up and bolts, heading a semi-circle around the ethereal being and shooting ice spikes.

She’s shocked they do nothing. They pass right through the dragon; her eyes widen in surprise and her mouth hangs open. _What is going on? _

_“Tiid klo ul!” _She shouts, but time remains as it is.

The _dov _roars at her. _“You are no Dragonborn! You are nothing! Nothing without me! Time-Sand-Eternity!”_

The world slows for her and she feels intoxicating magic fill her lungs and spread across her nervous system. She cannot react in light of the sluggishness brought on by the shout of slow time. _Zaammeytiid _does not move; it is not meant to bring her to her knees but to show Kara how helpless she is against the full force of _dov_. She acknowledges the state. She realizes the _dov _can snap her in two at a whim. It’s toying with her, taking its time, making her feel its helplessness and inability to so much fight back against something far greater than her. She grits her teeth at the thought. It reminds her too much of the man that killed her and that pisses her off.

“Maybe I’m nothing but neither are you,” the woman growls in the face of the ethereal, almost heavenly being. She meets its eye and challenges it. _“Zaam mey tiid, dov.” _

Whatever the words mean trigger a visceral reaction in the _dov_. The dragon leaps into the air and circles her; the flapping of its wings nearly throw her to the ground from the great gales of wind. The dragon roars out, _“Fade-Spirit-Bind!”_

It disappears. She doesn’t remember the shout used but she takes the opportunity to make a run for the treeline opposite of Gravel. The forest offers her a semblance of comfort as she exhales and forces her nerves to calm. She throws a Muffle spell on herself for good measure.

The dragon’s voice comes as a whisper directly overhead as large wings flap in the sky above the canopies. _“Life-Seek-Hunt!” _

_Aura Whisper. _Kara needs to move. She’s not safe hiding, and the _dov _takes pleasure in knowing that.

_“You cannot run from a dragon, Dragonborn! Our kind was meant to dominate and destroy! Devastation of the lands has always been the songs of our kind,”_ The _dov _calls to her as she returns to the open plains a second before another shout follows. _“Fire-Inferno-Sun!”_

The heat of the flames causes her to cry out. It washes over her in waves as the full force of the shout knocks her prone. Her body shakes and trembles. It’s far, far worse than anything she’s been conscious enough to live through before. There is no lightheaded-ness or dissociation to take over the woman’s mind when the pain becomes too much. There’s nothing but her sobs and screams and wails as every nerve in her body begins to cry out in pain. She’s lost her grip on her Daedric dagger and any focus on her spells. Part of her doesn’t understand why Sanguine hasn’t popped up yet; doesn’t _this _qualify as a life-or-death scenario? She doesn’t feel _Zaammeytiid _land nearby; the great _dov_’s weight does nothing to the ground and something clicks in her head.

“Your body isn't rea—" Kara _breathes_ but her sentence is cut off as a living, breathing dragon’s roar engulfs the area.

Gravel begins to whine and struggle against the reins holding him to the tree. She can’t muster up the strength to call to him or soothe him. The pain in her head does not leave even when _Zaammeytiid_’s form dissipates in front of the prone Dragonborn. She stares in horror as a large form swoops in and lands. The ground shakes from the impact of a red dragon marred in gold and black splotches of scales. She recalls in the recesses of her brain the different kinds of dragons found in _Skyrim_. The weak ones like Frost dragons or Blood dragons come to mind first but she distinctly recalls the shape and appearances of Revered dragons and…

_Ancient dragons. They spawn as soon as level twenty-eight. They become more common around level fifty. _She tries to struggle but finds her the pain in her body too much to do anything but think. She begins to sob in her efforts to sit up.

_“Dovahkiin!” _The Ancient dragon seems pleased by what it’s found. _“Dir ko maar!” _

She recalls the phrase as something _Alduin _spoke during Sahloknir’s resurrection. She tries to reach out to Sanguine, to compel the Daedric magic in her body to leave and alert him, but while it begins ti dispel from smaller wounds across her body she is effortlessly picked up and taken into the sky by one of the Ancient dragon’s massive feet. Her body dangles like a fish in the snare of a bird of prey; she is the prey and her position as such is made wholly clear as she’s flown higher, and higher, and higher.

_I’m going to die. _She can’t tell if Sanguine’s on the ground or not. Even if he is—he can’t reach her. The dragons are smart; she recognizes they have begun to pick up on her unconventional allies. She doubts the Daedric Prince can stop her body from smashing into pieces by merely catching her. _Is he going to watch it happen? Take a sip of wine? Dump more power needlessly into my body until I’m a Dremora sworn to his side? _

She knows now why Zaammeytiid’s shouts only caused harm for her. The _dov _is not nearly so free as it desires to be. The two still hold the connection that binds mortality and the dragon spirit into a _Dragonborn. _She finds the air thinning and her mind struggling to process anything in spite of pain—but she tries to reach out to the _dov_. _I need you. _

_You have let us die. _The _dov _is angry.

Inside her mind, she winces. _It wasn’t me who shouted our mortal body into Oblivion. _

_You are not worthy of wielding my strength! None of you! Devour master! Consumer! _The dragon’s spirit snarls loudly but it only reaches her ears.

_None of us? _She blinks. _You—You’ve been alive for all the restarts? Aware? _

_I am Slave-Of-Time. _The _dov _translates the name in her head with hisses and snarls.

She feels the Ancient Dragon stop its ascent. It looks down at her in its grasp and roars. She doesn’t understand what it says in the dragon tongue but it’s grin tells her all she needs to know.

_I don’t want to restart anymore! Please! Zaammeytiid! _Kara begs the _dov. _She feels nauseous at the height and incapable of resisting anymore pain. _It will kill us! Let me use your strength! I can save ourselves! I can stop Alduin! I can end these cycles! And when this is all over—I can find a way to free you! _

She doesn’t know what her speech level is or if _Skyrim _as Skyrim is tracking it but her _dov’s _hesitation gives her hope as it snaps in their mind. _Why would you do this for me? You and all others have done nothing but claim fame and glory through repeating eons, Dragonborn. The strength of my name goes unknown and you reap the rewards while I suffer on the ground, torn from the sky! _

_I know what it’s like to be helpless. _Kara tells the _dov _as her body—their body—is dropped. _I know what it’s like to be scared! _

She falls.

_I know—I know what it’s like to have no say in the matter— _

She falls.

_To have your life ripped away by another’s hand—_

She sees the ground.

_I want us to live. _Is her final thought before her physical form blacks out.

“_Mul qah div,_” Her _dov _opens the body’s eyes and forces the words out before it hits the ground. The shout of Dragon Aspect renders itself across the woman’s body in the form of thick white scales melded with smooth golden tips. The impact causes scales to go flying off her form and sprays the area in shining golden white sleet. It looks like snow as it settles over the actual dust stirred up. The hole the woman created on landing is deep and less a crater than a Kara-sized silhouette among a larger dent in the ground.

The ancient dragon roars overhead. It sits and waits but the Zaammeytiid refuses to hand itself and Kara over peacefully. The _dov _feels the protection of the Dragon Aspect shout fade away as larger hands pull her from her landing point and haul her to her feet. Zaammeytiid meets the eyes of the Daedric Prince her Dragonborn fawns over, but it is the _dov _who wears a wicked, tedious grin.

“_Dov.” _Sanguine words are casually said but the gleam in his red eyes hints at a far more murderous emotion brimming under the surface. “Where is Kara?”

“She lives, Daedra,” Zaammeytiid turns to wipe blood from Kara’s lip. She points at the Ancient dragon bellowing overhead. “And we are one again—but she is _weak. _I will teach her what she has forgotten—_Gol! Hah! Dov! _Fall!” The Dragonborn commands the dragon in the sky with a roar that sounds more and more inhumane as seconds pass by. The Ancient dragon is nothing to a spirit born of time’s heresy; its will bends and it lands like a scolded child.

Zaammeytiid finds the Daedric dagger of the Listener lying on the ground ten feet nearby. She picks it up and spins it in her grasp. In her natural form—she is genderless, a dragon’s spirit beyond the terms mortals assign to body parts. In Kara’s body—she is an extension of the woman, a half to the same soul, and she accepts the label of _woman _with pride. She knows the thoughts, the secrets, and the emotions that flit underneath the Dragonborn’s skin. She knows the woman inside-and-out. She can tell lies before they are thought of, sing songs before Kara remembers the notes, and the _dov _does it with impunity to establish the firm boundaries of the two’s relationship: Zaammeytiid is _dov _and Kara is _Dragonborn_. The two are not the other despite the shared breath.

“Kara, hear my words—I accept your offer.” The _dov _lifts the Daedric dagger and finds light gleaming down one edge of the blade. It’s beautiful to witness; the Daedric blade feels so _right _in her grasp. She admires the calls to blood it beckons. Zaammeytiid returns to the Ancient dragon’s still form, bound helplessly by raw thu’um to the point she ordered it to. When the blade first strikes the dragon’s throat, it is Zaammeytiid who stabs, stabs, _stabs. _

When the blade falls last, it is Kara who holds it. She breathes heavily and slowly and her body wobbles from her knees to her chest. The Ancient dragon’s blood coats her even as the dead dragon’s soul relinquishes itself from the corpse to her body. Zaammeytiid roars in triumph in their soul. The Listener lowers the Daedric dagger and drops to her knees in front of the Ancient dragon’s now-skeletonized form. She rests her forehead against it’s skull and exhales sharply, grateful that the dragon is not only dead but that Sanguine hasn’t had the sense of mind to provide snarky commentary on the situation.

A hand rests on her shoulder and she looks up to find the Daedric Prince’s form—not as Sam Guevenne but as the ebony-skinned manifestation she knows him best as—looking at her.

“You found your _dov_.” The Daedra tells her.

It _clicks _in her mind and her eyes widen. _My dov. My dov. Zaammeytiid. You’re here. You came back. _

The _dov _doesn’t reply and it doesn’t need to. Every ounce of pain, every hellbent nerve, and every moment she fell from the sky is all worthwhile in the Listener’s mind. She manages to stand on her own volition. Though she sways, a bright smile lights on the woman’s face. It’s every bit as lively and joyous as the Dark Brotherhood is dark and murderous. Against her enchanted shrouded armor the expression is a sight to see; the woman begins to chuckle and laugh at it all as she pictures herself and the _dov _side-by-side in her mind. She thinks of how absurd it is for the two to quarrel like they have and how their strength combined is far greater than either’s is alone.

Her laughter and smiles are infectious. She finds Sanguine’s posture relaxes and he smiles, too, but perhaps not for the same reason as her. She doesn’t mind, because he’s _close_ and they’re all _alive _and he’s kissing her so tenderly her heart might fly out of her chest.

But the reality of her mind, of the thoughts that kill her dreams and haunt her nightmares, of all the _what if’s _and _but’s _and the anxiety of a dead woman, it all comes crashing back down on her, and she feels herself freeze. Her body goes numb, but her hand pushes him back and her eyes are full of every emotion that straddles her brain and wrings her subconscious. She mumbles a confused, fearful _“Don’t.”_ as her mind retreats into the protective shell it’s built around itself.

She walks Gravel back to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary alone, with no one but _Zaammeytiid_ for company.


	24. (smut) the bride died of happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the dragonborn catches up with veezara right before a familiar scene plays out in the dark brotherhood's sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there there is a touch of smut in this chapter!! but just a touch  
for now

She’s grateful for Cicero’s presence. He’s doting and waiting on her hand-and-foot if she allows, and for once the Listener lets him indulge in ensuring she eats, she drinks, and gets to bed on time. He’s busy on more than one occasion with responsibilities as Keeper to the Night Mother, but when he’s not the jester often seeks her out and distracts her gloomy state with songs, with dance, and with terribly-timed jokes that are so utterly Cicero she can’t help but smile or laugh. It helps that Leorn or Nazir are around to offer witty retorts or delicious meals; nothing helps the Listener’s soul like good food.

Apparently Zaammeytiid thinks the same.

She tries to talk to Cicero about _stuff _but the jester brushes off the subject.

“Why, if calm Veezara and lovely, dancing Listener are happy, Cicero does not have a problem with that!” The jester declares to her wholeheartedly in one dancing discussion. He spins her around and she smiles at his next words. “Cicero adores the sweet, kindly Listener! Cicero does, oh, yes, he does! But he is not a greedy man! He has Mother to care for and family here! He is happy Listener shares her heart with many people! All Cicero wants is to be one of them!”

If she presses him further—he repeats the words, occasionally interjecting with quips or melodramatic tales that end in pun-chlines and lead to some other Dark Brotherhood member groaning. Sometimes he sneaks her a kiss. Sometimes she sneaks _him _a kiss. His never-ending enthusiasm for all she does and thinks and feels makes her feel wanted. He, like Veezara, becomes one of the few that give her the warm feeling of _safety_. It’s not easily obtained but once she realizes it’s there she basks in it for all its worth. For a time, it holds off the thoughts of a Daedric Prince.

Her mind returns to Sanguine often over the week.

He has yet to appear after what occurred with the ancient dragon and Zaammeytiid’s return. He has not followed her to the sanctuary, and she has not witnessed any strange Bretons or Daedras alike wandering about the forest or halls of the sanctuary. She summons a Dremora on one occasion but the Daedra is always the bloodthirsty kind and never the silver-tongued, drunken bastard she's had around. Though initially his absence frustrates her, as the days pass she comes to miss him more than anything else.

_I wouldn’t blame him if he never showed up here again. _She thinks one afternoon by the waterfall. Cicero is busy cleaning the Night Mother’s sanctuary and she has a moment to herself. Her shrouded leggings are pulled up to the knee and her feet soak in the waterfall’s natural lagoon. The water is pleasant to touch and she finds her emotions settle as she concentrates on it.

“Mind if I join you?” The familiar voice makes her smile. She doesn’t have to look to know it’s the Saxhleel, the Shadowscale, the last of his kind.

_Just like me. The Last Dragonborn. _She breathes and grins at Veezara. “Just got in, did you? Where did you and Arnbjorn get sent off to?”

“Mm. A wedding. It was lovely; the bride died of happiness by the time the day was over.” The Argonian slips into the water, uniform and all. His arms keep him anchored to the edge of the lagoon and keeps his head above water. He floats as if he was born of water itself; he looks content and at home to Kara.

The Listener smiles fondly. “I bet she did. How was the reception?”

“Arnbjorn can tell you more about that. I was there as his _back-up._ He pissed off two Imperial soldiers, cleaved ones head in, and I got to dance to lovely music while everyone started screaming.”

“Doesn’t sound like him, actually,” she pauses. “He’s always come across as having more self-control than that.”

“He does. But there’s a full moon this month. He’s on edge.”

“Werewolf problems.” The Listener huffs. She yelps when the Saxhleel pulls her into the lagoon. Her armor, her gear, and all of _her _gets soaked while Veezara smiles in amusement. Though initially angry, she calms when she realizes how nice the water is and how close it puts her to him. She eagerly runs her hands up and down the scales of his neck, his jawline, and his head.

The look in his eyes tells her what she’s doing is working.

She snorts and retracts her hands. “That’s for pulling me in.”

“You’re a dangerous woman, Listener,” The Saxhleel states, pulling her into a kiss. His body presses against hers and the momentum drifts the two into a corner of the lagoon, where one side of her squishes against the rocky wall and another squishes against Veezara. The Saxhleel’s kisses become deeper and taste sweeter as they both tread water. “I missed you.”

“I can feel that.” She laughs. “You’re practically—”

Her mouth drops and her back arches against him. He must know every shallow edge or outing of the rock in the lagoon because he’s found a foothold to keep himself up while one arm wraps around her to keep her head about water. His yellow gaze stares into her while his other hand drops to her groin and fondles her over her armor. Her face blushes and she tries to press herself more into him.

“I don’t think anyone will hear you,” the Saxhleel’s offer is clear. “Would you like me to…?”

“Please. I want to.” She begs.

His hands at her groin feel electrifying. The waterfall rumbles around them and she prays no one walks into the chamber at that moment. When her first gasp sounds from the Saxhleel’s hand slipping under her waistband she begins to pray _hard _no one can hear her. Veezara’s fingers are gentle and slow as they massage her pubic area but never quite touch the hood of nerves that ache for contact. She begins to bite her lip to keep from groaning at his movements. He dances around her sweet spot for a moment before two fingers find the bundle of needy, pleading nerves and he begins to rubs it. The tips of his fingers are as scaly as the rest of him and the texture makes her gasp.

Veezara looks pleased at the sounds she’s making. He draws her closer to him and kisses her while his hand traces circles over her clit. Her hips writhe of their own accord; she tries to grind against his hand but stops any motion the second she does.

“Just relax.” The Shadowscale tells her gently. “Let me do the work.”

She swallows and nods against him. She feels his fingers dance across her pelvis and move lower, lower, _lower_. They brush the top of her thighs and she nearly amputates his hand from her thighs squeezing together instinctively. Veezara gives her a concerned look and she frowns. “No, no, continue. Sorry—Just—”

“I can stop,” he offers.

“I don’t want you to stop,” the woman states. “That just—My body did it. I didn’t. I want to. I promise. I really, _really _want to so _please _get your hand in me before I have to grovel.”

His laugh is a sweet sound, and his kisses are a blessing from the Void. She’s wrapped up in him when his fingers begin sliding up and down her groin, teasing the entrance but never quick poking through. Her breath hitches and she pulls back to look at him. “Night Mother help you if you don’t—”

“You shouldn’t mention our unholy matron right now, it’s _very_ distracting,” Veezara says softly. He steals another kiss so when a finger presses into her his mouth covers her gasp. The finger slowly pushes deep and slides out. He repeats the action again, again, and again. It leaves every inch of her body on fire for more and she begins to pant when he doesn’t speed up or add another. Her back arches into him and her breasts press against his chest through their armor.

“We should have done this sooner,” she breathes in delight when his finger is curling inside her. She moans against him and lets her head fall into the crook of his neck. “By the Divines.”

“You weren’t ready then—That’s okay,” Veezara reminds her. He begins to pump the digit in and out of her, struggling at times to do so because of her legging but trying nonetheless. She writhes against him as he adds. “You see eager now.”

“I need it—I need you.” The Listener exhales sharply. She moans and grits her teeth when she feels another finger enter. Her body stretches to accommodate them but she finds the sensations difficult to process. It’s incredible vulnerable to have someones body part inside of her own body. She feels as if she could melt in his arms and die there from the pleasure that starts to rack her back. Veezara kisses her forehead. She pants harder as the fingers move inside her and curl into a spot she’s not expecting.

“Ng,” is the only coherent sound she makes as her breathy moans follow and take control. She can’t stop herself from trying to clench on the man’s hands. He’s too good at what he’s doing for her to not begin speaking his name. Veezara’s fingers scrap the sweet spot inside her again and she finds the pressure building inside of her. He repeats the action with the motions of moving his fingers in and out of her body; she can’t take it. She finally feels an orgasm take her and wrap her in its embrace; she shudders and shakes and cries out Veezara’s name in a long, lengthy decree of delight. He hums proudly at the sound and holds her while her body relaxes in the afterglow.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” The Saxhleel whispers.

She keeps her head buried in his neck so he doesn’t see her bright red face. The water has shifted around them from her body’s movements but the waterfall continues to roar nearby. She catches her breath slowly. “Thanks.”

“One day—If you wanted—”

“I do.” She whispers back to him. “I honestly wouldn’t— Mind it now— If—”

“We could rent a room at an inn. Falkreath has one. Put in a fake name and leave before morning.” The Saxhleel thinks aloud a moment and Kara snorts.

“That is way too complicated for one night of sex.” She shakes her head. When Veezara releases her she fixes her leggings and pulls her drenched but happy self out of the lagoon. Nobody is in the cavern besides the two, but she knows others are home in the sanctuary.

“Why does it have to be one night?” Veezara swims back to the edge of the lagoon and keeps his arms on the rim of it. His head rests on his arms in a way that’s endearing to the Listener.

“You make a sound argument.” Kara admits. “But that’s only if Astrid doesn’t send you off somewhere or—Send me off somewhere. Though I don’t regret not going to Markarth. The city is a death trap for the poor and short-tempered.”

“Let’s avoid it, then. Outside of work there is no reason to entertain the thought.” The Saxhleel smiles faintly.

The damn Shadowscale’s eyes ought to be a Daedric Prince’s, because the woman finds they hold the same magnetic quality that Sanguine’s does. The fact the Daedra can pop into her mind so easily frustrates her. Her change in mood is immediately noticed by Veezara and he stares at her in concern.

“You remember when I brought the strange Breton around? Sam Guevenne?” Kara casts a flame spell and begins using it to warm her body up while her clothes drip dry. “I had to run an errand a week back. He kissed me.”

“You’re popular with people, Kara.” The amusement is obvious. “I thought you were going to tell me you bedded him. This is much less strange.”

“Am I that easy to read?” She stops her spell-casting and wrings her hair out.

“When you get into a mood, yes.”

“A mood.” She grimaces. “Night Mother helps us. I get into _moods_.”

“You or your _dov _do,” the Saxhleel nods. “Which reminds me—It would be wise to practice more this evening.”

“Practice or _practice?” _She pauses at the thought. “I think I would be okay with either, now. I feel… better about it.”

“Perhaps both could be arranged. But I don’t want you to push yourself outside of your comfort zone.”

She makes a move to give him a snarky reply but the sound of Astrid and Arnbjorn talking up the stairs of the entrance hall give her pause. She frowns and hears Veezara climb out of the lagoon while they both stare in that direction. The Listener walks forward and stiffens when the Dark Brotherhood’s leader walks down with her husband trailing her. Astrid’s eyes land on the Listener but they hold far less anger than when she first got home.

“Ah, Veezara!” Astrid nods at the Saxhleel standing next to the Listener. “My husband told me how your contract went! And the news is everywhere! It continues to spread! She really bled like a stuck pig, did she?”

“Your husband killed her; I engaged the reception’s guards.” Veezara’s response is humbling. He doesn’t take credit where credit is not due, Kara notes.

“He did--But you are part of this family. You assisted in the murder of Vittoria Vici, the Emperor’s cousin! Butchered at her own wedding! His eminence will not be able to ignore this,” Astrid’s grin is genuine and for a moment Kara finds herself happy that the woman is so excited and enthusiastic about it. Kara is happy Astrid is happy. Then, as Astrid continues, she pauses, “I’m glad you’re here, Kara. I wanted to talk to you. Arnbjorn, Veezara, if you two can give us a minute.”

Astrid takes the Listener aside while Arnbjorn returns to his forge and begins unloading damaged and mangled equipment on his tool table. Veezara stands nearby, not close enough to eavesdrop but simply close enough so his presence might lend some comfort to Kara.

“Yes, Astrid?” Kara tilts her head. She doesn’t think she’s done anything else to warrant Astrid yelling and raving at her, but the woman never knows with their leader.

“I wanted to apologize for going off on you recently.” The woman’s words are surprisingly sincere and hold no malice. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… And yes, you are the Listener, I don’t doubt that. But I am the leader of this family. And, as leader of this family, I need to make it my priority to not only push us to revive the Dark Brotherhood but also to resolve conflicts without it devolving into baseless accusations. I know I can do better. I’ve been passive-aggressive taking things out on you—But this point now signifies a change, an improvement in our relationship with one another. I want us to work hard and kill often. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Thank you,” it’s weird to thank Astrid for anything but Kara means it. She manages a legitimate smile. “We are a family.”

“We are. Even if the jester keeps babbling about the Night Mother. _We _are a family. Us,” The way Astrid speaks of the motley man makes Kara hesitate. Astrid looks off at the waterfall and pauses. “I think he may have a problem. A serious problem. I know you are fond of the man but he’s incessantly babbling on to the coffin like someone is there. The Night Mother is a holy symbol, but we must not forget she is _dead._ We are the living, breathing heirs of Sithis—”

“She may be dead but she speaks—I’ve heard her—That’s how we got the contract with Amound Motierre,” Kara exclaims before she can stop herself. Her _dov _rumbles in the back of their shared mind; Zaammeytiid senses the shift in tension.

“He’s talking to himself! By Sithis, everyone else in this sanctuary has walked by that casket a thousand times and heard _nothing_! I know you think you heard her, Kara, and perhaps _you _did, but he actively believes he can converse with her! That she’ll respond! That she’ll—”

Kara’s eyes narrow and her fists begin to clench. Any hope of resolving matters fades in her mind as the Listener feels the need to defend her Keeper and Night Mother rise in her stomach. Her _dov _encourages it with growls and soft roars. “Perhaps he talks to himself sometimes. What’s wrong with that? If he’s doing his job—If he’s not hurting other members of the Dark Brotherhood—Why is it a big deal?”

“Because he’s a _lunatic,” _Astrid hisses and grabs the Listener by the shoulders. She leans in close and narrows her eyes. “He’s off the charts crazy, Kara. His singing and his dancing and his—”

“You called him _what,”_ she spits in the face of her leader and shoves Astrid backward. The Dragonborn’s eyes seethe. “You called him _what?”_

“He’s a mad man, full of delusions. You know he is! The things he says, the way he speaks! He’s going to snap one day and we can’t take that risk!” The words make something in the Dragonborn’s head go off. She recalls another life, a world where mass shootings are the case for the stigmatization of individuals who suffer from ailments of the mind. She thinks of her husband, of the man who ranted and raved about the true violent individuals being those who were _lunatics, crazy, mad. _

She punches Astrid. The blond woman stumbles back in shock before her eyes fill with rage and she grabs the Dragonborn, the two beginning to grapple. Out of the corner of the Dragonborn’s eye, in her peripheral, she hears and sees the flash of lovely black-and-red motley.

_“You will not hurt the Listener!” _

And the timeline momentarily makes sense.

She can’t stop the scene unfolding. Even though she tries to wrench herself away from Astrid and put herself between the woman and Cicero, the latter still draws his blade and strikes at Astrid in defense of the Listener. And Veezara—calm, attentive, understanding Veezara—intercepts the wound with his gut. Blood spews and Kara stands frozen to the ground. Veezara’s body crumples with a long hiss of pain while Cicero stares at Astrid with rage. “Look what the pretender has done! Made poor Cicero strike down calm Veezara!”

“Kill him—He’s attacked one of our own!” Astrid _snaps _the order—to whom? To Arnbjorn? To herself? To Kara?

Kara’s _dov _steps in. Zaammeytiid can see the woman’s brain struggling to process everything that occurred.

_“Gol hah,_ Cicero,” Zaammeytiid’s voice is direct and commanding, nothing like Kara’s own. “Run away to the place you know best.”

It’s in the nick of time. Arnbjorn finally realizes what occurred and the werewolf howls in a rage-induced transformation. Cicero’s steps are light as air and he whirls past Astrid in his dash up the stairs. The werewolf bolts past the trio with snapping jaws and murderous intent written in his veins, no doubt on the hunt for the jester's neck. Behind the group, at the other end of the chamber, a sharp cry sounds and Babette comes _running _down the stairs and to Veezara’s side. Alysoin pokes her head out, catches sight of the scene, and her shouts inform everyone else in the depths of the sanctuary to the situation. In due time every other member of the Dark Brotherhood—save for Gabriella, the lovely elf is absent on a new contract—gathers around the bleeding Saxhleel.

“Just try to relax, Veezara, let the elixir do its work.” Babette’s voice is sweet and calm but the tension in the vampire’s arms hints otherwise. She tips a potion into his mouth for immediate help but waves Alysoin and Festus over to help take Veezara’s chest piece off. The pained noises the Saxhleel makes would make Kara cringe.

Zaammeytiid is _not _Kara.

“You’ll feel better shortly,” Babette begins applying salve to the wound. “Probably. I promise.”

Veezara hisses in pain. “—Thank you, dear—You are most kind. Cicero’s cuts hurt as bad as they look, unfortunately.”

“They should. He’s a member of the Dark Brotherhood. His skills linger regardless how you view his mind.” Zaammeytiid’s voice causes the group to stop talking and stare.

Astrid’s eyes _blaze _in anger and she grabs the _dov_ woman’s uniform by the scruff of the collar. “What is the matter with you?! This is all your fault—”

“All Kara’s fault. Release me.” Zaammeytiid corrects and commands. When Astrid does not, she bares her fangs and hisses. “_Release me.” _

“I am your leader. I give the orders here.” Astrid spits.

“That’s not—” Alysoin’s soft voice sounds as terrified as she looks. She makes to hide behind Babette while the latter continues tending to Veezara’s wounds.

Zaammeytiid tilts her head. “Go on, _joore. _Kill me. I beg for death. See where it gets you.”

“That’s her,” Veezara utters curses in a tongue Zaammeytiid finds familiar but does not understand, likely the native language of Saxhleel. “The _dov_—Kara’s _dov. _She’s Dragonborn, Astrid—"

When Astrid releases her and steps back with an air of caution, Zaammeytiid grins. The _dov _looks over the scene and glances at Astrid expectantly. _Play out the script, tiny one. Tell me to go to Dawnstar before my shout rips life from your hands. _

“If anything happened to my husband—If anything happened to Arnbjorn—” Astrid’s fury in the face of a _dov _is either admirable or foolish. Astrid’s choice in lifting an enchanted ebony blade and pointing it at the _dov _is the definition of foolish, but it amuses Zaammeytiid enough to let her live on as the leader of the Dark Brotherhood hisses, “Go turn back into Kara and make _her_ bring my husband home. I want Cicero’s head on a plate! He’s gone against this sanctuary in attacking Veezara and that calls for death! Tell Kara it is her responsibility. Tell her it’s her punishment for raising fists against me!”

It’s not the exact way the scene is meant to play out but the _dov _woman shrugs and finds it amicable. “Yes, _in. _Whatever you wish, _beyn. Meyye._” The dragon speech is sarcastic and though Astrid doesn’t know the language, Zaammeytiid is more than certain Astrid is capable of detecting the passive-aggressive tone.

As the _dov _steps past the Black Door and outside the sanctuary, she finds the familiar face of Sanguine standing there. He’s not happy to see her; she isn’t happy to see him. With mutual dislike for each other acknowledged, she strides beyond him and saddles up Gravel. The horse is fearful from events involving an Ancient dragon, but there’s no time for patience and understanding as Zaammeytiid climbs on and grabs the reins. She looks over at Sanguine and raises both brows. “Oh, is the _Daedra _going to join me on my travels? I’m honored, your highness, I wasn’t aware _royalty _was in the mix! Shall we be off?” The faux-courtesy is mocking.

Sanguine’s hand grabs ahold of Gravel’s bridle and hold the horse steady. His red eyes meet Zaammeytiid's own with a darkness looming just beyond them. His voice is sharp and curt as he states, “Kara doesn’t desire the jester dead, _dov_.”

“Who do you think gave him the command to run?” the _dov _woman hisses. “I know my half better than you, Daedra! You aren’t privy to the knowledge of her desires. Do you intend to come or will you _release my horse?_”

“Your Bend Will shout doesn’t work on me.” The cocky grin is accompanied by Sanguine tapping his forehead as if it’s the most obvious thing in Mundus.

“My _fus ro dah _will suffice. You are a physical manifestation projected from your real self in Oblivion, in your Myriad Realms. The others fear you too much to try and damage you—But you can be banished like any other Dremora,” the _dov _woman ignores his smirk. Zaammeytiid shakes out her body’s hair and narrows eyes at him. “Will you stay? Will you go? Answer me, Daedra!”

“Neither. I got a few things to do in my off time. Bodies to fuck, wine to chug, the usual,” the Daedric Prince nods to his words. “Besides. Kara doesn’t have the desire to see me right _now_.”

“Since when were you considerate, Lord of Debauchery? Prince of Oblivion? Daedra’s turned a new leaf?” Zaammeytiid’s smile is as wicked as any Sanguine can muster, because both _dov _and _Daedra _alike know the answer. It’s written as clearly as the bottle of wine Sanguine holds. The Daedric Prince doesn't answer and Zaammeytiid slips the observation into the back of her mind. Sanguine releases her horse and Gravel breaks into a gallop heading north; she anticipates a warm welcome at the Dawnstar Sanctuary.


	25. cicero, keeper, the fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with kara out of commission, zaammeytiild accepts the mantle of listener and takes care of the cicero problem.

The _dov _enjoys the ride to Dawnstar.

She doesn’t stop when Gravel tires—merely ditches him and finds another horse to take. The process repeats over and over. A _dov _does not need sleep like a human; the dragon spirit gleefully takes advantage of the fact when controlling Kara’s and her shared body. In less than a day she travels from the depths of Falkreath’s wilderness north to the cold waters of seaside Dawnstar. She knows where the sanctuary is. She has the memories and recollections of past Dragonborns, she knows the fables and in’s and out of the stories encompassing the great country. Her knowledge is exquisite and immerses one beyond the concept of _time _others are limited to.

She yearns no less than fifty times to cut slits in her back and force wings to grow. It won’t work, of course, she has never achieved flight so easily while trapped in ground-bound forms. She finds thoughts lingering on the subject to end the same way: a violent fury of shouts at trees, bears, and any unfortunate life within the immediate vicinity. The need to _dominate _and _control _and _command _give rise to primal tendencies satiated only in spilled blood. Many, many unfortunate souls meet the end of her blade and nails and teeth on the trip to Dawnstar.

By the time she finds the Sanctuary, there’s a heap of blood trailing up to the door. She grins and waltzes up with a Daedric dagger in hand. Zaammeytiid’s eyes seek out the spot where she _knows _a werewolf’s mauled form lingers. Arnbjorn looks pitifully unfit to live as he does, sprawled out across the ground in a pool of sanguine-red. Zaammeytiid hums thoughtfully and considers ending his life on the spot. The Daedric blade encourages her to but she puts the dagger back into its sheathe for _daring _to tell her what to do. Instead, the _dov _woman walks up to Arnbjorn and kneels next to him with a glint of play in her eyes. She casually prods one of the wounds in his gut and snorts when he gasps in pain and growls at her.

“Kara! Lamb stick! _You bitch! _Don’t fucking lay a hand on my wife! Don’t touch me!” The werewolf hisses. He’s got no clothes on due to his transformation. It’s a vulnerable sight, but Zaammeytiid doesn’t care. She huffs and steps over him while he curses her.

“Goodness gracious, poor, poor me, poor Kara, who I _am_, I don’t know how to get into this door! If only I had a way, _Arnbjorn_, to open this!” Zaammeytiid stops and snorts. She shakes her head at his glares and puts a hand on her hip. She envisions tearing the door and blasting the sanctuary with thu’ums—it would happen anyways, at some point, to Falkreath’s sanctuary—but she _restrains _herself for _now_. The spectral assassins inside can wait until she’s done messing around! The traps aren’t going off before then and it isn’t like the damn jester can hide from an Aura Whisper. She pauses. “_Laas yah nir.” _

It _excites _her to see the ghost of acclaimed Speaker Lucien Lachance inside. What a treat! She knows not of him beyond the tales and lore surrounding the _Oblivion Crisis _two-hundred years prior, but she has a fondness for the ghost and his taste for blood. If she was not a _dov _she would surely be a follower of Sithis. Such grand, glorious death and darkness—Perfectly suited for one such as her. But she is no human; she is _Zaammeytiid_, a _dov _bound by timeless repeats and cursed to walk the ground and never the sky. Sithis has no place for her; her wrath begs she seek out a means to one day take to the skies and carry out the World Eater’s will. If Kara knew—The woman hasn’t shown it.

Zaammeytiid finds all of it fascinating.

She leans into the Black door and smiles as it asks her the question. She knows the answer, she whispers it to the door in dragon speech. To her delight, the door pops open. _The language of dov will always be superior to any of the landwalkers verbal garbage. _

As expected, the ethereal form of Lucien Lachance bows at her. Then there is a pause. The _dov _woman smiles politely as she watches the spirit stare at her with an unblinking, dead gaze. The translucent shrouded robes on his form look silly in comparison to the modern shrouded armor that is worn by the Dark Brotherhood. The _dov _stares without fear and gives a cocky grin when Lucien Lachance turns from her and whispers in a voice too perfectly monotone to be anything but his own,”…You are half the Listener. Chosen by the matron. But you are not…”

“I’m not Kara.” Zaammeytiid’s voice reeks of irritation. She tilts her head and stalks up to the spectral assassin. He was surely handsome in his mortal years, before the whole _execution after being framed by a traitor in the Dark Brotherhood _took place. He's respected, and respect is something she wants him to give her either by force or otherwise. The thought comes to mind to make him grovel for her approval and she utters, “_Gol hah.” _

“I am of the Void’s children. A child… of darkness. Called home…” Lachance’s voice sounds far away. It rings in Zaammeytiid’s ears. “You cannot bend my will.”

_“Not yet.” _The woman snarls as if fifty feet tall. Her eyes contain a predatory gaze that yearn for blood, much like that of Lachance—but where his are empty hers are _full _and _eager_ to begin the devastation. “I am here on behalf of both halves of the Listener! I am _Zaammeytiid_, the spirit bound to time. The other half of the Listener could not _stand _what she witnessed in Falkreath’s sanctuary. Tragic, tragic, how the world plays out as it should and the lives of many fall a stroke closer to despair and demise. Child of darkness, will you stop me when I tear through these traps? Strike down the spectral defenders sent by your Void? Answer me!”

“Children of darkness do not fear the living, _zaam mey tiid.”_ Is the ghost’s reply.

Zaammeytiid growls lowly and looks beyond the assassin. Her eyes narrow. “And _dov _are not known for _patience._ Answer me.”

“You who are the half to Mother’s Listener—I will not put my blade to you lest the Dread Father commands it. But know this: the Night Mother does not seek Cicero's death.”

"I don't intend to kill him." With that—She stalks forward, not hesitating to walk through the specter as she begins the delightful conquest of Dawnstar’s Sanctuary. There’s much to do and no sooner than she crosses the first threshold does she hears a familiar, chaotic voice _ooze_ out of the world around her.

“Listener! Is that you? Oh, I knew you’d come… Send the best to defeat the best!” Cicero uses a spell or hidden mechanism to get his words across, as there is no other way his words can traverse the entire sanctuary. The jester sounds pained. She knows he is injured but she allows his confidence to waver while she _pretends _the traps are _so _jarring and the spectral assassins _so _deadly and dangerous.

“Oh, but this isn’t what Mother would want! No, no, no! You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener? Now that’s madness!...” The voice continues.

She has half a mind at the spike pit to shout the words of _gol hah _through the walls. It may not reach him, but it would make a point. She’s both annoyed and _amused _by the constant babbling and nonsense Cicero goes on and on about. Fuck Astrid this, fuck her that! The _dov _wants to kill him and appease his demands that the bitch die! It would be _so good _to taste Astrid’s flesh in her teeth after ripping the woman’s throat open and feasting on the familiar scent of flesh. Everyone would call her a freak, surely, a _cannibal, _but she is not human and her taste for _human _comes strictly from that which desires destruction and death across the whole of Skyrim. She would be so happy…

A spike trap goes off mid-thought and one of the spikes impales into her arm. She picks it out and breathes into the wound. _“Yol.” _

The fire cauterizes it and stiffs the blood loss. Kara can deal with the pain later; Zaammeytiid has suffered worse in time’s grip and does not care about the nervous system of a putrid mortal.

“Ouch!” The jester’s words continue to come through the spell-wall-system. “Pointy-pointy! My home is well-defended! I have always been a stickler for details! Get it? Stick-ler? Ha, ha! Oh, ho, ho! I slay me, I do! Dear Cicero continues to sing songs of humor in these dark times!”

“You will not sing long, I assure you.” The pun is what ends the _dov _woman’s patience. She hums at the loud gasp that comes through. She finds the impact of words delightfully dark and equally devious. “I intend to make our meeting a memorable one, jester.”

“The dragon! The dragon of the Listener! You dare take her place? The lovely, kindly, beautiful Listener’s place?!” The _outrage _in his voice makes her smile gleam. Cicero is heard frantic in his chamber, wherever it is. She continues slitting spectral throats of dead assassins as her footsteps become louder and her presence more imposing. Cicero continues to shout at her, “How dare you! How dare you! You who claim to take her spot! Cicero is disgusted!”

“I take that personally, sweet child of darkness,” the _dov _rolls her eyes. The twists and turns of Dawnstar’s sanctuary’s corridors give her a headache and at one point she’s nothing more than a force marching through and triggering traps to appease her boredom. She snaps the neck of a spectral assassin in her hands and stab, stab, _stabs _the abdomens of two more. The ecto-plasma remains of both squish when she steps over them. “You are _so _eager for Kara’s arrival! So much you no longer comment on my terrible footwork? You do not chide me or poke puns in my eye when I walk into open flames or ensnare my feet in bear traps? _Beyn, _I thought better for you! I thought you were not hopelessly ensnared in that woman like the rest! Give me a challenge, jester, rise to my occasion and _give me something to dominate.” _

Oh, she wants to, so, so badly. She wants to dominate the world and exert her influence. Kara acquiring the Thane titles across most holds of Skyrim was a result of her pushing and prodding. The _dov _yearns for a real challenge, not one so easily smashed in silky words and rotten corpses. For a moment she returns to the idea of burning the place to the ground. The poetic irony that could be had with a sanctuary ablaze _just _before Falkreath’s sanctuary is smashed into the ground and set alight… Her heart swells with the idea. She holds a flames spell on one hand, a Daedric dagger in the other, and she finds an old banner for the Dark Brotherhood hanging off an archway linking the corridor into a grandiose chamber.

_It would be so easy… _No, she must see it through. On behalf of the Listener, the whole of the Night Mother. Though Zaammeytiid does not call herself a child of darkness, she can possess respect for Sithis’ name and for his bride. _For now. For now. I am here to end things and get Kara’s head on straight. _

She follows a new path in the sanctuary. At one point, unbeknown to majority of Skyrim, the Dark Brotherhood, and at times slipping from Zaammeytiid’s mind, Cicero either stumbled upon a glacial cave or carved it out himself. The dedication she notes, but her real appreciation is the twists and turn the icy cavern offers. She smiles under her breath and hums a joyful tune as she strides past the comforting presence of _ice _surrounding her. She reemerges on the other end of the tunnel, in another portion of the sanctuary, and there’s little left before she finishes bypassing the traps and halts at the chamber she _knows _the jester hides in. It’s obvious; a trail of blood leads to the door and she can feel it barricaded against her touch.

“And now we come to the end of our play… This is our grand finale,” and the jester’s voice cuts out.

Zaammeytiid huffs. _“Fus ro dah!” _

The door is sent flying off its hinges into the room. It narrowly misses the pale, pasty, shaking mess of a motley’d man. As she strides into the room it gives her great delight to see a glimmer of affection fix upon the man’s face. The jester is a fool to think Kara is present. Zaammeytiid shatters the hope with a wicked smile as she walks over to Cicero and looks at his form.

“Well, well, who is this? Is this—_Cicero? _The _Keeper_ Cicero? You make a woman run halfway across Skyrim? For what, a night of disappointment? If Kara was here,” and she sings every word, every vowel, every ounce of disappointment she knows will fall on the jester’s face. “She would be so, _so _sad. You are a joke. If I were Astrid’s lackey—She would demand I strangle you by your intestines, you know. She actually wants me to bring her your head on a plate. It’s a strange request—But if she’s a cannibal or follower of the scum Boethiah—I may consider…” The _dov _eyes him.

“So confused, so confused… And they say I’m mad! _Cicero knows! _Cicero knows sweet, kind Listener is not a beast!” The jester clutches his side and hisses.

“You’re partially right.” Zaammeytiid kneels and steals the jester’s cap. She ruffles his hair and pauses, surprised by the softness of his hair. “...I am only half your Listener.”

“Half the Listener?” The concept doesn’t register. "Half the... Listener. The beast is part of the Listener?"

Zaammeytiid sighs and shrugs. “I am not bothering to explain. I came here for a reason, dear Cicero. I am here to _progress the story. _Do you understand that?”

“Oh, I like that! Good, very good! Creative!” Cicero’s eyes light up.

_But he has... soft hair. _The _dov _imagines what Kara might say to try and defend his life. She won’t kill him yet. That wouldn’t _please_ Kara and the last she wants is Sanguine’s pissy blade trying to stab, stab, _stab _her a few times. She takes a moment to stare at the jester, to soak in the rich reds and blacks of his uniform, to peer into his eyes and seek out every scrap of emotion like a ravenous dog to a bone. _But he’s sweet. But he dances. But he’s a good kisser. That’s something you would say, Kara, isn’t it? Always a stickler for such mediocre things. _She annoys herself by thinking the word 'stickler' all over again.

When she doesn’t kill him right away—He visibly relaxes. His smile remains shaky and his face contorted in pain but there’s less tension in the room. “Cicero accepts the Listener for who she is.”

“You shouldn’t say such things, sweet jester,” she means to say it in sarcasm but when the _dov _woman speaks she means it in full sincerity. Heat crawls into her face. She ignores it and eyes his wounds instead. “Huh, dog got you good. Kara would’ve given you a health potion and fixed you all up but I’m not the charitable type.”

“The blasted, hulking sheepdog!” Cicero curses and howls in pain. His eyes spark with a violent fury and he eyes the _dov _woman. “Did he die!? Did Listener bleed the dog to death?”

“I’m only half your lovely Listener, jester.” Zaammeytiid repeats slowly with a note of irritation. It takes a moment for her to recall _Arnbjorn _and his physical state outside. She shrugs and smiles, “I hope he dies. But I’m meant to be the merciful, charismatic Listener! Child of darkness! Blah, blah, blah… I’m not going to _slay the beast _when it’s no challenge.”

“He is with the pretender! The pretender must pay for hurting the Listener!” Cicero’s hiss of rage is a delightful sound. She enjoys the angrier, vengeful side of the jester. Perhaps they can get along after all.

_He’s bleeding to death. _A thought clicks in her mind. The _dov _woman scowls and scoffs and grits her fangs. She’s annoyed! Now she has to not only make sure the jester with soft hair _lives _but add it on to the list of shit Kara _should _be doing but _can’t _because her mental health took a field trip south. Zaammeytiid ignores the eyes on her as she lifts pieces of the jester’s motley from Cicero’s skin and exposes the soft, pasty skin beneath. At first glance the wound is not visible and she shifts to move closer; her eyes narrow in focus and she finds the long gouges in the man’s flesh further up from where the motley stuck to him. The lacerations bleed and bleed to no end.

“You’re going to die,” The _dov _realizes.

“What? No, no! Dear Cicero cannot die! Who will tend to Mother’s coffin? Who will dance with the Keeper? Read the keeping tomes? Steal Listener’s sweet kisses?” The man gawks and stares at her. He’s in disbelief, all anger melted.

Zaammeytiid makes note of the shifts in his emotions. She groans loudly, far too long than what is necessary for any human or landwalker, and after a moment of careful consideration her thoughts are cut off by the annoyingly foreign sensation of hands on her face.

_“What are you doing,_ jester?” Zaammeytiid hisses. Her brows furrow and she makes to hiss again but the damn jester’s laugh is too annoyingly light and shallow for her to go through with it. 

“Oh, yes, sweet Cicero knows, and sweet Cicero understands,” the jester laughs again. “Sweet Cicero adores all halves of the Listener! Yes, yes, the thought of pleasing one entails pleasing all! A fool to the very end! Let the fool have one more kiss before the curtain falls! Please, sweet Listener! Let the Keeper taste sweet lips!"

_He wants to kiss you? _The _dov _stares, bewildered. "The nerve of you..."

"Cicero is to depart for the Void! May he have one kiss to send him off?" The jester gasps.

The _dov _huffs, annoyed at how long its taking to finish business here. "One kiss for the dead man."

The hands on her face caress her cheeks. Cicero leans forward, but to the _dov_ woman's surprise, she finds herself eagerly meeting him halfway. His soft lips brush her own and he steals the kiss and air in her lungs all in one second. The shock of the sensation pulls heartstrings she didn't know existed. Her face fills with heat and her hands slowly lift to cup his face in return. She doesn’t pull away; she shuts her eyes just as the jester’s strength wanes and he slips unto the stony floor of the sanctuary. His eyes flutter shut and the _dov _woman snaps back to reality. Her heart sinks at the realization.

“You_ joor!"_ The _dov _woman accuses the jester. “How dare you provoke me like that! Make me... Make me feel these things!" 

But he’s dying—if not dead—and she knows now if she doesn’t do something about it he’ll stay dead and she’ll get stuck with not only Sanguine’s breeches in a twist but also forever-mopey Kara. The _dov _woman grits her teeth and rakes her hands through her short hair as her eyes pierce the jester and look for any hint of life. She finds the rise and fall of his breathe shallow but present; it’s a start.

The next step is remembering the words necessary to craft the appropriate thu’um. She knows it is possible; a dragon fight is never more than a deadly debate between two foes of equal standing. Man made new thu’ums out of their hate for her kin, surely she can do the same out of not-quite-hate for a man. Zaammeytiid’s brows furrow and she rearranges the lukewarm jester’s body until he’s flat on his back, arms at his side. She glares at him infinitely and steps back when she’s recalled the words she needs to act. It’s not guaranteed to work; she is not Akatosh nor Alduin, and a dragon tormented by time is not a _god_, but she aims to try and try she shall.

The _dov _woman growls a slow, _“Haas slen gron!” _

It translates to _health, flesh, bind _but to her dismay the shout does nothing. She roars in anger and tries again.

_“Zii yah laas!”_

Nothing.

_“Joor slen nahl,” _She tries.

_“Joor hah laas!” _

_“Joor hah vo! Laas zii gron!” _She tries and she tries and she tries. Her eyes narrow on the jester and her patience thins. The shouts are three words meant to be paired to return the mind and life to the mortal flesh body. The fact no combinations of words work spell ill for the dead. She’s about to give up and let him rot when his eyes flutter open and he watches her. She snaps her head down to meet his gaze. “_Joor!_ Fool! You are not so close to death as I thought... I am wasting my time trying to help you!”

“…The hall…? Help...” The jester mumbles.

She isn’t listening to him for his sake or out of her own concern. It’s purely due to his life being necessary to keep annoyed Kara and angry Sanguine off her tail. She eyes him in irritation and makes for the torn-off door; the doorway lays damaged from her earlier shout. She sees beyond it back into the corridor; her steps carry her farther from the dying jester. It makes her impatient in a way that’s almost nerve-wracking, only she is a _dov _and _dovah _do not fear anxiety like landwalkers do. She has no concern for his well-being, or his safety, or his life, and she refuses to consider the slightest notion of such when she _definitely _doesn’t care _in the slightest _way, _at all_.

_Why won't this heat in my face go away? _She grits her teeth.

Her eyes search the halls and her hands dig through old shelves and dust-riddled cabinets for a healing potion. She’s surprised to find one. She plucks it from its shelf and holds it to the light; red usually means good, at least in her experience as being the forced _dov _for an endless stream of Dragonborn, so the potion _should _help. If it doesn’t—At least she can say she tried. She returns to the jester’s room and finds his body colder than before. In a moment of weakness, she breathes a hearty, _“Yol!”_ Overhead to give a moment of blissful heat.

One potion later and Cicero is sitting up again. He eyes her with scrutiny but there’s a certain gleam that annoys her in his gaze. It’s painfully obvious that he’s a fool for the Listener, but his actions before a supposed death are less obvious in their meaning. Either that—Or Zaammeytiid is losing her ability to read people. She glares at him and watches his shivering form until she grows frustrated enough to stand, find a sheet, and wrap it around the blood-soaked man and his motley.

“Listener is very kind to poor, poor Cicero,” the jester calls from his seat. “Kind even when Listener is not the dancing, lovely Listener! Kind even when the Listener is strange, angry Listener! Cicero adores all of the Listener. Every nook and cranny, side, perfection—”

“…I’m not your listener.” The _dov _woman repeats.

The jester meets her gaze with a sparkle in his eyes. “Oh, silly Listener, yes! You are the silly Listener but you are still_ Listener_. Cicero sees it now!”

“I’m not, you—” She stops in her words, stunned in his eyes. 

Before she knows what she's doing, the _dov _woman has fallen into his arms, leaned into his grip, and stolen a kiss from him, only for the jester to steal one in return. The two entangle hands in hair as the scene plays out. She finds herself distracted by his taste, his touch, _him_, as he smiles against her. The Keeper’s lukewarm, shaky hands fall unto the Listener’s face and cradles her head. The idea of a _mortal, a joor _doing such a thing, having the _nerve _to be an object of affection, it makes Zaammeytiid’s head spin.

She has not been challenged for control of herself beyond Kara’s pitiful attempts to douse her draconic rage. This is a different vying for control, something that leaves her breathless and excited and territorial. It fuels the need to prove herself, to show she is the superior and she is in charge.

And then the damn man’s moved away, hanging back, and his cheeky smile is as perfect as the flames of her _Yol_ shout. “Silly Listener _tastes_ as sweet as kindly, dancing Listener.”

“May Alduin devour you whole, _joor,_” she grumbles but doesn’t move, her face flush with her own emotions. Her eyes watch him, both eager and cautious.

“Mm… Listener… Such lovely smells for the lovely, silly Listener…” The weakened man utters. He lays his head down on her lap and she looks down at him with eyes that are not nearly as cold as they should be for a _joor_, a mortal.

“You will live today.” The _dov _woman relents with a growl. “Cicero, Keeper, the fool.”

“Praise be to Mother.” The jester mumbles.

“You will _stay here _and tend to these grounds until _Kara _assumes her role of Listener.”

“Yes, yes, of course…”

“Do not return to Falkreath’s sanctuary, fool.” Zaammeytiid’s hand hovers over the jester’s hair, remembering how soft it was. With no dignity left to lose to him, she allows her hand to drift through his scalp and for her eyes to fall on his. He’s aroused by the action and the blush on his face indicates it.

“Cicero would not even dare,” the jester hiccups. “Not even dare—_Dare—_Return there without silly Listener to protect him.”

“I am not _silly Listener_! I am Zaammeytiid!” The _dov _grits her teeth.

Cicero peers at her. His face holds a smile, one she’s seen reserved for Kara in the past. The fact it’s directed at _her_, at the _dov _bound by time, startles her.

“What a lovely name for the lovely Listener. Lovely, so lovely…” Cicero says softly before his eyelids shut and she’s left wondering just what the hell has happened in Dawnstar’s sanctuary.


	26. (smut) the contract of gaius maro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the steps to assassinating the emperor are underway. kara has a contract in the matter and it takes her out to the old city of windhelm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a SMUT CHAPTER IVE BEEN WAITING FOREVER TO FINALLY POST HFGOHGJHGOHJGFOHJGFOH  
enjoy  
its been a long time coming heh

She doesn’t flip to the front of the body and regain control for weeks, _several _weeks. Her _dov _either refuses to relinquish control or can’t for heavens-knows what reason. Regardless of the case, the thirty-year-old is more than ready to be the Dragonborn, the Listener, again when she finally is _Kara _once more. The woman finds herself in an unusually tense Falkreath sanctuary but the mood lightens once others begin to realize she’s not her _dov. _Whatever occurred in the time Zaammeytiid was in charge—she soon remembers the events with Cicero, Astrid, Arnbjorn, and Veezara—is drastic enough for others to look at her with fear until she clarifies she is _Kara. _

_What did you do? _The Listener thinks to the _dov _as she finishes packing for a new contract.

A man in charge of security, an Imperial by the name _Gaius Maro_, must be killed for the next series of steps in Amound Motierre’s contract. Astrid’s decision in giving her the kill makes Kara raise brows at first but she gets over her thoughts soon enough; she knows better than to second-guess the woman after all they have gone through recently with Cicero.

_Cicero… _Initially, she fears Zaammeytiid killed the man. She recalls how her heart aches and her tears fall at the thoughts of his demise. She remembers how not even Veezara can comfort her, as the Saxhleel himself begins to bear resentment for the jester, and how she spends many nights in Cicero’s old bedroom with her head buried in his keeping tomes. When Zaammeytiid at least finds the motivation to give her a note, she's relieved to the point of crying. Her heart sings that day and days after. She keeps it to herself since; she knows the news will not be well-received and a different member of the Brotherhood likely sent to finish Zaammeytid’s job.

_I don’t understand why you spared him but thank you. _The Listener sincerely tells her other half.

The _dov_ makes a point of not giving her a response.

She takes time to pray to the Night Mother. She’s spent the past night meditating and engaging in Shadowscale practices with Veezara. With so much stress from recent events on her mind neither chances to explore the realm of intimacy they long for. It both helps and hinders her; part of her cares desperately for the Saxhleel while another part is torn asunder by her newfound commitment to keep Cicero’s fate a lie. She writes it off as the stress of grief and of Zaammeytiid’s actions, but she knows in time Veezara will see through the ruse and come to suspect her if she is not careful.

On her way out she takes time to visit Veezara and Babette. Alysoin is out on contract, Festus is in the dining hall, and Leorn bonds with Nazir over cooking a pot of stew while she chats with the Saxhleel and vampire.

“I think when all of this is successful,” and Kara emphasizes the last word, _successful. _She intends the Dark Brotherhood storyline to end in a manner with less loss of life than the video game _Skyrim _offers. “We should celebrate. Perhaps I’ll even have a drink, just one, but it seems like the occasion would call for it.”

“I don’t drink.” Babette tells her and returns to the game of checkers with Veezara.

The Saxhleel pauses, considers the words, and nods. “No, I agree with you, Listener. Suggest it to Astrid. And good luck.” He aims to give her a kiss but she turns her head at the last moment and feels it graze her cheek instead. Veezara doesn’t show disappointment or dejection but his eyes watch her in concern.

“You sure you can handle this, Kara?” Gabriella swoops in from the side and wraps an arm around the Listener’s shoulders. “I know Cicero’s death was tough to swallow. By your _dov_, no less. But Astrid _forgives you_. Astrid forgives your _dov_. We are a family, no? You must hold your head high, kill well, and often!” She smiles in encouragement.

_Such a beautiful smile. I would kill for you, truly, if I could find a piece of your heart and claim it for myself. _Kara’s mind whirls. It isn’t the distraction she asks for, but by focusing on Gabriella’s beauty and soft-looking lips her mind takes a break from the rest of life. She nods and pretends to pay attention to the woman as Gabriella escorts her to the front of the sanctuary, shows her to a horse named Troy, and offers a thumbs-up.

Troy’s galloping off before she can change her mind. She doesn’t think; she lets her thoughts drown in the mixed bag of emotions inside her head. She rides Troy north, avoiding Riverwood on the way, and cuts around Whiterun to head for the eastern provinces of Skyrim. Gaius Maro is a tricky and clever man. To find him, kill him, and frame him like the contract entails requires her to think a step ahead. She knows the patterns he takes from one city to the next and it is only a matter of time before the man is forced to stop in Windhelm. The city may be Stormcloak territory, but it is also a place Gaius Maro is responsible for checking the security of in event a certain emperor visits. That part of the game never made sense to her but she's grateful for it now.

She walks into Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm, three days after departing Falkreath’s sanctuary and a week before she anticipates Gaius Maro’s visit. She sends a letter to Cicero in Dawnstar describing current events and progress on the Motierre contract. She writes a letter to Falkreath’s sanctuary, to Veezara, and pens all the details she can think of in what the city looks like, sounds like, and _feels_. The first evening in Candlehearth Hall is relaxing. She takes in the local bard’s music, buys plenty of food, and sits by a warm, stoked fire with occasional small talk directed at those passing by.

The second day is, likewise, excellent. Four days after leaving Falkreath’s sanctuary and six prior to Maro’s arrival, she spends a couple hours in the market before exploring the Grey Quarter district of Windhelm. She briefly considers stopping by the Palace of the Kings to say hi to Ulfric Stormcloak and get an update on the war efforts but she restrains herself; her _dov _is not allowed out around any Stormcloaks she comes across. She refuses to let the army harass and hassle her into participating when so much else goes on. Likewise, she doubts _Ralof _would even be found inside the walls. He would be in Riverwood, if anything, what with his family member she doesn’t remember the name of.

“It’s been so long since I was level one.” She mumbles to herself the evening of the second day. It is still four days after leaving Falkreath’s sanctuary and six before Gaius Maro reaches Windhelm. She hears odd rumors circulate the barkeeper, bard, and maids working at the inn: a group of Thalmor have been spotted looming around the city. Why the Thalmor would be let in any of Windhelm’s gates is beyond her but she takes a moment to imagine possible conspiracies and settles on_ ‘Thalmor secretly funding both sides of Skyrim’s civil war’_ as the most likely.

It’s still evening of the second day when she wraps up her bowl of soup and bread, stands up, and moves to return dishes and utensils alike to the barkeep. She stops when she realizes she’s not alone, and it is not the ‘alone’ in the sense of locals hounding the inn. It is the moment of realization she stares into the back of a Breton wearing dark black robes, marred in red enchantments, with tussled brown hair and tanned skin. Her body freezes and she drops the bowl and spoon she was carrying; they fall to the ground with a _crash! _Eyes in the room turn to her.

Rich, red, ruby eyes.

Powerful, deep, entrancing ruby eyes.

“Sanguine.” She breathes the name, unable to look away or tear her eyes off him. She looks up at him when he steps forward and down at him when he bends over to pick up the items she dropped. Her hands shake when he gives them back.

“Kara.” The Daedric Prince doesn’t hold the same anxiety she does at the two coming face-to-face again. She doesn’t expect him to; she knows she is only a _mortal_, not even a _consumer_ in the eyes of Daedric Princes.

“Thanks.” She mumbles and doesn’t move.

She’s shaking like a leaf in wind. Her face must be drained of color by this point. Her eyes can’t shake themselves of him. Every little action is noted, observed, and reacted to. He doesn’t look angry, she can tell, but she doesn’t know how to read his expression and that makes her nauseous and worried and antsy to think about.

“…Kara,” the Lord of Debauchery offers her the same, friendly smile he wears when parading around Mundus. “I’d ask why you’re in Windhelm but it’s not to see my dashing good looks, is it?”

She can’t answer. She moves past him, hands the dishes to the barkeep, and apologizes profusely for a crack in the bowl’s side before fleeing to her room. She doesn’t sleep a wink that night. The next day, she doesn’t leave her room more than necessary: she keeps to herself and re-reviews her contract details and throws herself into preparing to _master _every step of the thing from the kill to the framing. Yet every time she steps out she finds he’s there. He’s never watching her but it’s obvious the _pull _affects him too, as one or the other inevitably bump into one another. She runs, and she runs, and she runs. The fourth day, three before Maro’s arrival, go the same.

The fifth is different. Kara takes a bowl of soup, sits at the bar, and nearly jumps ten feet when Sam Guevenne, Sanguine, _that _Daedric Lord, sits next to her. She doesn’t dare waste the gold used for the soup, and the seat is at the approximate distance for her and her _dov _to be delightfully settled near the fire, so despite her instincts screaming at her to _run, run, run _and shut him out, she doesn’t. She eats her food in silence and ignores the stares she knows he gives her. Her stomach turns in her chest and flip-flops in fervor. A tension she can’t quite describe threatens to burst in her gut. She wants to throw up but she doesn’t dare so much cough.

“Get out of my head.” She mumbles under her breath, never really intending for him to hear but thinking aloud.

“No.” Is the answer she’s not expecting. It’s stubborn like he is, firm like he is, spoken strong like he is…

“Sanguine,” for a moment her voice drops and she whips her head to hiss at him. “That wasn’t mean to be taken literally—”

She loves his eyes, she does. She can’t stand how perfect they are, better than any flawless ruby or Daedric blade. Not even bows and arrows come close, not even the shouts of a _dovahkiin_, not even her _dov_’s roar can compare to the beauty of his rich, rich, _red _eyes. She loses her breath and stares at him while he smiles faintly and looks back at her. He doesn’t hesitate meeting her gaze. He doesn’t avert his eyes. Kara’s heart begins thumping in her ears and though she excuses herself in mess of syllables the thumping doesn’t stop.

Someone knocks on her door hours later. It’s late in the evening and she’s too tired to think as she pulls it open and stares up at the Breton.

“May I come in, Kara?” His voice is strangely polite and reserved. It throws her off; she doesn’t know what she’s doing but she stands to the side and sheepishly lets him through.

He stands several feet away.

She makes a point of looking at the floor.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a very un-Sanguine thing to say and it makes her look up. His eyes are oddly soft and she can’t help losing herself in them. “I don’t usually apologize, y’know. But,” and he steps closer, and instead of a smile there’s a frown. _“Clearly, _what I did upset you.”

He’s talking about the time he kissed her. She swallows.

“And I’m sorry about that,” Sanguine states, voice careful and restrained as he takes another step. “Really sorry, actually. Sorry enough I’ve spent most of this time avoiding you. Surprise.” There’s a note of humor but the seriousness of his demeanor is too much for Kara to focus on anything else.

And he takes the finally step, a mere foot away, with his red eyes staring down at her. He’s transformed from the Breton of Sam Guevenne back into his Daedric form. The Dragonborn’s heart jumps ten feet up her throat.

“I’d rather _not _keep avoiding you, you know,” the Daedra continues slowly. He’s cautious, she realizes. He’s cautious trying not to scare her away. “I’m not hoping for anything here—” And the one time she can avert her gaze his hand reaches out and gently tilts her face to look back at him. “I just wanted to know if we could be friends.”

It must take a lot for a Daedra to apologize to a _mortal_, Kara thinks. Her _dov _agrees with a faint roar. The Listener stands still a moment and she finds herself lost in his eyes, his face, horns, skin, everything. She can decipher the meaning of his words: even if she does not return the sentiment, he will drop it all so they can return to simply a set of spirited, strange companions across Mundus.

“I don’t want that,” she whispers.

Sanguine’s startled face surprises her. She’s not aware he has such a face, not until then. His hand lingers on her cheek and he inquires with a soft, low tone, “What do you want, Kara? What can I offer you? What’s worth your heart?”

“You can’t,” Kara breathes. It’s not of her own volition. She can hardly stand up straight from the emotions and feelings and thoughts running wild in her head. And she says the words without thinking, or perhaps after she’s thought too much, “It’s already…” She can’t finish the sentence.

It’s too much, having him _there _and _close _and tangible. It’s too much, being sucked into his ruby red eyes that have attracted her for so long. It’s too much, everything from the distance that separates him to how badly everything inside of her aches for his touch. She physically cannot go on like that; her body and brain and every other little part of her refuses. The woman’s form shakes and she feels Sanguine’s warm arms wrap around her body and pull her into his grasp. She struggles to breathe and simply buries her head in his chest, inhaling the scent of the _Daedra _seeping through the travel robes he wears.

And when she finally pulls away, just enough to look at his face, his eyes are already there to greet hers and his lips have the gentlest smile for a creature of Oblivion.

Her hands go to his face and she kisses him. She can’t stand not to anymore. She presses herself against his lips and holds him like he might just disappear if she doesn’t. His grip tightens on her body and she knows the two have crossed a line that was always there, waiting in the sand, but she can’t find it in herself to care. All the walls she’s built and crafted to keep herself detached come undone in a flurry of short breaths, lip-mashing, and the vague awareness that they’re moving closer and closer to her bed. Then she’s on the bed, and he’s on the bed, and she’s staring up at him while his hand ruffles her hair fondly.

“Kara,” the Daedric Prince looks utterly entranced by everything that’s her. “You’re a dangerously frustrating woman to fall for.”

She can’t think of the words or their implications. She needs him so badly her body burns in impatience. She struggles with her own clothes, with the little clasps of her civilian clothes and the small flaps and buttons of the shrouded armor underneath. She doesn’t hesitate when she sees opportunity to fight the Daedra for his robes. He doesn’t fight her, either, but lets her lead the duo’s dark, intimate dance as she pulls the robes over his head and looks at him.

“How are you so beautiful?” The woman breathes.

Sanguine enjoys being admired and looked at, but there’s more pressing matters to attend to. He kisses her forehead, her nose, and her lips, he presses kisses into the crook of her neck and her collar. He lets the kisses fall down to her breasts and he watches her for any hint of fear or hesitation before he kisses them too. The tension and pressure in Kara’s abdomen increases, and she mumbles incoherent syllables of dragon speech mixed into the common tongue while the Daedric Prince enjoys every inch of her torso. He seems to savor tasting her, like he’s waited a long time for such an occasion, and she feels nothing but the heat of her body burning more fiercely at the thought of such.

She doesn’t want his lips to leave but when he moves lower and lower she begins to pant and shake from the nerves and stimulation. By the time the Daedra’s kissed her pelvis, she’s a breathless mess calling his name. She repeats every part of it like it’s its own shout. When Sanguine’s hands slip to her thighs and part them she begins to sing. When his tongue finds its way to her and explores every inch inside—her songs go from the likeness of soft songbirds to loud belts of pleasure. He’s every bit the title of _Lord of Hedonism _that she could ever imagine him to be, and her hands grip his head and his horns while her songs continue and quell and rise in strength and volume.

She finds her legs twitching and struggling to stay still as the pressure explodes in her stomach. Her breath hitches and her breathing becomes lighter and shallow than the pants she barely manages. Her legs try to wrap around something and wind up at his neck; the Daedric Prince seems pleased by her reaction. His hands fall to her hips and she sings a new note of his name when it finally overwhelms her; the music is screams of delight and calls for his name, euphoric wails and orgasmic necessity. Her body relaxes and she feels him draw away. Her eyes open to see his sweat-covered body; his smile is content if not exuberant at how the night has gone so far.

And it will continue, she knows, seeing the Daedra’s hardened erection. But she refuses to carry the same fears of intimacy she did months ago. She presses a hand to his chest and the other cradles his face to look at her as she whispers, “Lie down.”

“As you wish.” It’s strange to hear a Daedric Prince, one of the most powerful beings across the universe, comply so easily. But Sanguine lets her direct them; he lets her turn the tables and have him lying down on the bed while she looks at him from on top.

Her hands lace with his. “Slowly.”

“Anything you want, Kara.” The Daedra tells her softly. “You decide.”

“I know,” and she does. She positions herself and looks him in the eye. For a moment one hand leaves his, to ensure that she can get him in, and the sharp gasp that falls from her lips indicates such. Her free hand returns to his and she squeezes them tightly as her hips lower. The thirty-year-old woman exhales in surprise. She stops when their pelvises press against the other, with her taking as much as he can give.

Her head spins. The feelings in her body of being stretched, being reached, loved, full, warm, _desired_, they all compile into the need to move, to take, and to receive. She gasps again as her hips start the slow pace, adjusting to the feeling of him hitting every nerve inside. He inhales slowly and watches her with a grin. His hands squeeze her own and she pants as the pace begins to increase. The neediness of both Dragonborn and Daedra mesh as Kara pushes herself on and off of him. Both can feel the connection that draws them together; it is every bit Daedric as it is _dov_ and the souls and magic of both meld with the two’s bodies connecting.

Kara cannot stand it. She arches her back and forces her body to move faster, take more, and offer all she can to the Daedra. The lust and relief and wants of her body and mind lead her to calling Sanguine’s name over-and-over. She doesn’t care when the bed begins creaking or her sounds pierce the windows and walls. She doesn’t notice when her thu’um accidentally goes off from her body's shouting. She doesn’t register Sanguine’s tight grip on her hips as he gyrates into her in a sweaty mess of smacking skin and thrusts. She can only think about how close he is to her, about the feeling of his skin on hers, and of his rich, rich, ruby red eyes. Her mouth parts and hangs open in breathless moans and cries. His mouth clenches shut but his own arousal catches up to him and he begins to grunt and groan and heave into her.

All any can do when she finally goes over the edge and begs his name is collapse. He follows her orgasm immediately. The two’s body’s become a mess of sweat and breathlessness. Kara doesn’t realize at first the hot, hot liquid shot inside her is from him. She can only feel her muscles and body mindlessly clench around him in desperation to hold him there so they can go again in a few hours.

It’s overwhelming. Her eyes shut and she relaxes. His arms hold unto her and he kisses her neck. When she draws back to look at him—He kisses her, too.

“What did we do?” The Dragonborn breathes slowly.

Sanguine snorts. “Had sex?”

“Wow.” Is all she can mumble, but it’s not a bad thing. She can scarcely believe that the emotional intimacy that she experiences in that second came from the deep physical connection; it’s wonderful and mesmerizing and she could do it all over again.

And for a while the two lay there like that. Neither dare to move and break the illusion that either can address the topic at hand; it hangs over their heads like a spider spinning webs. She breathes out and feels him adjust enough to pull a blanket over both Dragonborn and Daedra. When she can finally think, she realizes the warm, content feeling in herself is a sign she feels _safe_.

_Sanguine. _She mouths the name. He kisses her as if he’s known all along. She can’t help kissing him back, pressing her face to his as much as she can without moving too much. He grins against her lips and moves to kiss her nose.

The two are interrupted by sharp knocks at the door.

Sanguine’s eyes darken and all the warmth he holds for the Dragonborn quickly replaces with Daedric rage at the individuals interrupting. He moves to sit up but Kara pushes him back down. She offers a hesitant smile. “...I’ll take care of it.”

She throws on light clothes—nothing fancy, no armor, chances are they will wind up coming off again—and moves to the door. She opens it expecting to see the barkeep or maids with a sour face asking her to keep it down. What she does not expect is the end of a spell and sword and staff and bow as a group of Thalmor Justicars stare at her and the nude Daedra on the bed. Her mouth hangs open in surprise and the group leaps into action. She can feel—hear, sense, know—Sanguine _trying _to get up, to move, to help, but the Thalmor Justicars are smart. They've prepared, gathered info, monitored her and the Prince, it's the only answer she has for how the scene plays out.

The mages have already prepared banishing spells for the Daedra. He’s gone in a rumble of purple magic before either can say goodbye to one another. Kara’s eyes grow big and wide and she _screams _at the Thalmor and shouts out a blast of _fus ro dah! _It knocks a couple flying but more pour in and elven arrows nail her in the torso. A Justicar tackles her to the ground and more follow. She has no equipment and she finds she can’t shout immediately at the high elves due to her expending use of the full _fus ro dah_ shout. The frustration increases tenfold once they gag her mouth and force anti-magic cuffs unto her hands. Her magicka pools wilt and wither and she feels herself grow dizzy from poison on—Elven arrowheads? She tries to free some of the Daedric magic, to force them to let Sanguine return and keep her alive, but the Thalmor are not incompetent. They’ve prepared restoration spells for the occasion and their hands crudely shove magic into her bleeding abdominal wound; she thrashes against them when her body soaks up the magic against her will.

The Thalmor smuggle her out of the city in the dead of night, leaving all her gear and equipment behind in the room as well of remnants of what should have been a happier evening. She’s blindfolded as soon as they get beyond the gates of Wildhelm; she feels a horrible burning pain envelope her shoulder and feels a brand being magically applied. Her already-empty magicka pools begin to throb in pain and her head aches. She can’t make sense of what her _dov _tries to say to her, or of what spells the mages of the Thalmor unit cast. She doesn’t know when she’s loaded on a wagon, or a horse, or walked, but she finds time doesn’t matter to both her and her _dov. _She’s forced to wander and follow the crude directions the Thalmor give her. There is no one to see to Maro’s murder in Windhelm, no Daedra to wrap her in his arms and tell her he’s taken a piece of her heart, and no _dov _to commune with so an escape plan can form.

She’s out of spells, out of magicka, and out of luck. 


	27. a dov does not forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara is to become the third aldmeri dominion's personal weapon; zaammeytiid plays the game to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING  
THIS CHAPTER IS REAAAAALLY DARK  
there is a lot of description and allusion to torture psychological physical and verbal abuse  
like actual brainwashing  
(also zaammeytiid pretends to seduce a justicar but there isnt rape)  
kara's perspective on this is all kinds of fucked and jumping back and forth up till zaammeytiid takes over
> 
> please read with caution, this chapter can be skipped since ill make sure next chapter has some reference to what zaammeytiid does or s/t

“Stop. Please.” The screams that follow are fearful. A whip cracks and the wails grow louder from the adjacent cell. “I don’t know anything else—”

“Silence!” The Thalmor guard’s whip snaps again.

“No—Augh!!—_Please_—Don’t you think I’d have told you everything by now?!” The voice continues in a desperate drabble of pained syllables and fearful connotations.

“Let’s begin again,” Justicar Rulindil of the Third Aldmeri Dominion calls and the screams begin again.

She’s been taken to the Thalmor Embassy in the northern provinces of Skyrim. The exact location eludes her; her mind is a fuzz of memories that range from the sweet taste of Sanguine’s lips to the nightmarish noises coming from the cell next door. She is a prisoner of the Thalmor, the High Elves of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, and she understands her place in their eyes: _scum_. She may not know the reason for her capture but she imagines it involves the Blades, her crimes of murdering attacking Thalmor in self-defense, or perhaps the act of not being a pure-blooded High Elf. Even the whisper of _Talos worship _is enough to get one whisked away by the golden-skinned elves. It stings to know the only reason they did not execute her on the spot in Windhelm is her _Dragonborn _blood; she acknowledges her existence as a political pawn.

When she first arrives, she still smells Sanguine on her. She breathes in the scent. It’s the only comfort she has but even it is ripped away when she’s stripped down and sprayed in blasts of cold water. According to prisoners she occasionally hears from between the walls—it’s a form of hazing, a violent initiation into the hellhole that is Thalmor’s torture chambers. She’s thrown a pair of rags as clothes and it barely covers her; it does nothing for the cold and she senses even her _dov _dislikes the temperature and attire. Her shoes are stolen. She’s kept blindfolded but she remembers sounds, sights, and smells from past play throughs and they point her to the Thalmor Embassy. It’s as disgusting to breathe in as it was to play through. She despises every second of it, grimaces and growls at every guard that shoves her, and finds more than once that she is on the end of the pole when it comes to having any kind of authority or influence. Every hint of disobedience or hesitance is punished by the application of spark spells on her body. Again, again, _again… _

Much like the unfortunate thief next door.

“No... No, no more! No more! Please! For pity’s sake—” The disobedience is met with agonized cries. She doesn’t want to imagine what is done to the thief but the smell of blood and crackling of whips makes it obvious. _“I’ve already told you everything!” _

“You know the rules.” Rulindil’s voice is impassive and calm. Somewhere, beyond the row of the underground cellblock, she hears the sound of his quill dipping into an inkwell and notes being written. “Again.”

“No!!” The thief screams.

She doesn’t dare wince, not this time. She is the Dragonborn, born of a spirit bound by time and fated to suffer, and her defiance knows _no _ends, but she is also a woman whose memories of trauma slowly begin to surface. She knows at least one guard watches her at all times and that the guard waits for excuse to strike her. She knows the gag in her mouth is always doused with fresh poison to sap her magicka pools. She knows the wounds in her torso haven’t healed and poison is likely to blame. She knows she is a shivering mess, in shackles and chains with her arms forcibly pulled above her head. She feels helpless and trapped. She _knows _she is helpless and trapped.

She tries when she first arrives. She can remember it clear as day: the woman is escorted down a set of stairs by a high elf man named Ondolemar. He has a prim and proper way of talking but comments on her looks nonetheless and describes her as _almost _being worthy of siring children if not for her lack of elven blood. She’s handed to Head Interrogator Rulindil, a Justicar she’s killed many a times over in actual playthroughs, and he has a brief conversation with her before she’s locked away.

“You belong to us now,” She thinks back to his words. “You are property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. You do not think for yourself. You serve us. We will let you live a long life—”

And she almost manages to _laugh _before the high elf hands her the first punishment. She’s forced to stand on tip-toes for long, excruciating hours despite the aches and cramps in her toes, her feet, and her legs. She’s occasionally checked in on by Rulindil. He tells her the same thing and she reacts the same way. At first, the punishment does not change. But after a time—and a long time it is, she recalls—Rulindil has enough and calmly whispers orders to elven guards. She’s hauled away to another part of the facility and forced to kneel. Her top is stripped of her and her brand _burns _on her bare flesh where the magic was sealed. Then—another brand joins it. It is not the strange spell of the Thalmor but a physical, hot, _hot _piece of metal forced against her back while she screams and struggles in their grip. The Thalmor let her fight them until she can’t find the energy or will to resist; they stop the burning of her flesh and one slaps her new marking. She sobs in pain beyond her gag.

Her _dov _howls too, but in anger. It’s distorted and garbled due to her magical brand’s interference.

After that the punishments become as diverse as the sounds of terror from other cells. She learns that a person can live being forced to stand outdoors overnight in Skyrim’s winter, she learns a person can wallow in their own shit for days and forced to bear the stench, she learns there are words of torture a person can utter as their spells play tricks on her mind and leave her drowning in visions of bloody, burning bodies. Kara’s will begins to crack but her resolve remains as the days drag on. She finds herself constantly taunted, spat upon, and degraded by the shoves, the punches, and the beatings of the Thalmor Justicars. Eventually, Rulindil stops paying her visits and simply gives the command from his desk in the facility, often mid-interrogation of other unfortunate souls. She vows to serve him to Sithis; her _dov _offers a distant noise that echoes the thought.

She’s relieved the Thalmor give her breaks. She feels bad for the prisoners they turn to but she values her well-being more. She has a job to do, a man to murder!... Or she did, Rulindil tells her on occasion, until she became part of the _Aldmeri Dominion. _Rulindil seems to find joy, in the short, brief moments they share together, in describing how valuable her _dov _is to the Dominion and how she’s only kept alive to function as a tool.

“The Dragonborn is more than a political tool. You know this, don’t you?” Rulindil comments off-handedly at one point. She still doesn’t know what he looks like but envisions him with disgusting golden skin and dark, cold eyes. Rulindil seems to pick up on her thoughts for he continues. “Regardless what you think of _me_—The Dominion is now your master. You _will _obey, Dragonborn. We have more than one way to break you.”

Sometimes, she has nightmares of the man who left her dead in another world. Those nights often follow encounters with Rulindil, the disgusting voice of the darkness beyond her blindfold.

Other nights are sweeter. She occasionally dreams of the Myriad Realms, where Sanguine’s laughter is as abundant as is his cheerful mood. In those dreams she finds the plane of Oblivion appealing, a call to her despite her past grievances with its abundance of wine and intercourse. She dreams of all the individuals she loves present there: of sweet Cicero, of Veezara, of the hedonistic Sanguine, of the two souls she’s come to care for under her wings—Alysoin and Leorn, respectively—of Gabriella’s encouraging smiles and dancing voice, of her lovely mare Velvet before… And the dreams end all the same, for a dream can only be so sweet before her reality sinks back in. Realizations of her present engulf her thoughts. She cries often, for the time before the Thalmor is one she thinks of fondly.

The Dark Brotherhood does not send anyone for her.

She knows because the Thalmor guards speak. She’s awake one day, submissive and forced to kneel for her guards, and a conversation wafts in that briefly spurs the old heart of _Listener _and _Kara _to life.

“The Gourmet’s been found dead. An accidental drowning.” A guard comments offhandedly to her own.

“A shame. I always envisioned the chef to be a mer of superior breeding, even if they did approach cuisines beyond our high elf masterpieces,” her guard answers back. “They did an entire book on the dogs of these lands! A disgrace to their talent!”

For most prisoners it’s not relevant to the painful lives they life, but for Kara—The news sheds light on a hollow thought. Her difference in behavior is picked up on by her guard immediately; the Thalmor strikes her back with their boot and it leaves a streak of dirt and grime down her bare skin. She keeps her cries to herself and her head bowed apologetically.

“You will not think! A tool does not think!” The guard sounds feminine, perhaps a woman. “You are property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. Remember that.”

Even in her restraints, her mind works. It is a painful thing to acknowledge: the Dark Brotherhood has abandoned her. She is thought of dead or missing or the location is too well-guarded and protected to break her out. All three are possibilities. The news is also a faint marker of the passing of time; she is not a prisoner of the Thalmor for days but a prisoner for _months_. The Dark Brotherhood continues to kill without a Listener and what contracts Amound Motierre initially provided appears to be enough to satiate their needs. She is not worthy of rescue, or valuable enough, and eventually she comes to accept that. She accepts that the Dark Brotherhood knows best. She accepts that Veezara and Cicero will forget her. She accepts that Astrid should always have been the leader, the true Listener.

Eventually, even Gabriella’s soft smile fades.

She turns thirty-one in the confines of the embassy.

“…No…” The thief remains locked at the adjacent cell, victim to another beating that night. If the tool was disobedient, she might ponder why a simple thief is held hostage so long. She knows the woman named Kara knows the answer, but she must _behave _and she is not bad like Kara!

She is the Third Aldmeri Dominion’s property, a being made to serve the high elves and bring them glory. She exists to exemplify their greatness and to root out the evils of inferior races, in hopes to one day obtaining the permission of her owners to exterminate herself. She is not a person. She is not a name. She is simply ‘she’ and she does not disobey. She knows Justicar Rulindil and Justicar Ondolemar; sometimes the two bring her food or water. Sometimes Justicar Ondolemar tells her she is doing a good job. She exists to bring him glory, he reminds her, and she agrees with soft sounds muffled by the gag around her throat. It’s only taken off when one of the Justicar’s ask her a question; she only speaks when spoken to and she doesn’t _dare _raise her voice.

But something is wrong. She knows this. She’s not the wrong one! It’s the beast in her skull! The roar of a thing called a _dov_. She is scared of the _dov _monster. The Justicars teach her manners and courtesy; on one occasion she gets to meet First Ambassador Elenwen at a party and it is an honor she makes sure to thank both Justicars for in tales of their greatness. She doesn’t like that the _dov _monster disagrees with the Third Aldmeri Dominion. She finds meaning in existence bringing them power and glory. Why does the _dov _not see the same?

Zaammeytiid is not Kara and when the latter finally thinks a thought of _Why? _the _dov _snatches up the opportunity to act. The high elves, the _dov _woman knows, are clever and wicked in ways to control and dominate and exert power and influence over the weak. She almost respects them for it, but she does not bend her knee or bow for any _mortal _who tries to stake a claim on her Dragonborn half. She is _dov, _a slave of time, and the only master she possesses is that of time itself. The force of _time _is far beyond what an elf can mitigate. It is that thought she holds on to when she initially claims control of the body.

She comes to in the middle of a grand gala and the body wears an ebony dress adorned in gold embroidery of the Thalmor emblem. It is long and silky and embraces her body in deeply intimate manners. It emphasizes the body’s lack of muscle, emaciated stature, and submissive position as the Third Aldmeri Dominion’s weapon. The _dov _spirit tries to blend in; but her dancing partner is the white-haired Justicar Ondolemar and he is not called _leader _for nothing. In the middle of their waltz he excuses the two and his grip holds the body tight while he leads her out of the ballroom and to an outdoors courtyard.

The magical brand on the body's flesh _burns _in agony.

“So the _dov _shows its face,” Ondolemar observes her a moment before pulling her close, forcing her into another dance. His hand interlaces with hers and offers it a painful squeeze. “You are late, little _dov. _Too late to save your Dragonborn.”

He pulls off her gag and runs a thumb across her cheek. She despises the action but keeps her expression plain.

“I am sorry.” Zaammeytiid finds the words filth but she is a _dov _and _dovah _are nothing if not clever.

“Will you shout me and bend my will?” Ondolemar’s golden skin is taut. His eyes darken but his steely composure shines. “The words are _‘gol hah.’ _You are free to do so. Your voice has not been restrained in many nights.”

“No, master,” and the dragon spirit forces her head to bow, her pride to swallow, and her eyes to remain on the floor. “I am a tool for the Third Aldmeri Dominion.”

He’s pleased.

He wrenches her upright and pulls her into a spin. He draws her close when her back is flush against his chest. She can feel every nerve of the body revolt but she keeps her form silent and limp. Kara did not talk unless spoken to, she knows, and this is no different: to win the game, she must play by their rules.

His hands sweep her hips and wrap around her. His teeth sink into her neck and Zaammeytiid forces the hiss and growl and _roar _of a _dov _to crawl and dissipate in her stomach. She lets her mouth hang open and shuts her eyes. The bite is hard enough to draw blood and Ondolemar is satisfied by her submission. He releases her and taps her shoulder. The woman kneels and keeps her head bowed.

“…If only you were a _mer_.”

But the treatment of the Thalmor at the Embassy changes. Zaammeytiid finds her blindfold is only applied during shift changes. Ondolemar becomes the sole provider of her food and she eats whatever he brings her, no matter how _disgusting _or rancid. She thanks him for everything, she kisses his hand and feet when he demands it, and she lets him rake longing fingers through her hair. The Justicar’s dedication to only pursuing other supremely-bred _mer_ is what keeps Zaammeytiid’s temper in check whenever Ondolemar’s hand brushes her cheek or his eyes linger on her form too long.

He moves her out of the torture chambers and into a small house near Markarth’s keep after three months of good behavior. She sleeps on the floor and he in his bed. Occasionally he makes her lie next to him and stay perfectly still while he eyes her hungrily, but nothing more than predatory looks transpires. Zaammeytiid behaves as he asks, and she keeps her mouth shut in spite of the thoughts running rampant across her head. Her lungs seep of devastation and her mouth salivates at the thought of his blood, but she does not let either show. She’s paraded around the Thalmor Justicars as a trophy and given a tour of the entire city. She’s allowed the privilege of watching first-hand when the Justicars rip a father from his screaming, crying family and execute him on the spot. She’s dressed up in black-and-gold robes and given a leash and collars that the Justicars pull her around on. Her meals become palatable and she begins to receive the nutrients she needs to strengthen the body from its thin, weak self.

She is a _dov _and a _dov _does not go quietly into the night.

Her behavior keeps Kara from trying to intervene on the Thalmor’s behalf. It is not like the Dragonborn to be submissive but Zaammeytiid knows Kara’s mind is a fractured mess and needs time to heal. She doesn’t feel bad when she forces Kara’s half of their soul to submit and obey her internal command of _sleep_. She feels nothing when Ondolemar lets her sleep on the floor. She waits until the man’s soft snores fill her ears. Then—the _dov _moves.

He resides at a two-floor house with a ground-floor entrance. The lower half leads to a common area, a kitchen, waste room, and an alchemical laboratory. The upper half reeks of a private bedchamber, a studio, and a small botanical greenhouse with special window panes and rare varieties of flora.

Her first act of reclaiming her freedom is the phrase, _“Feim zii gron.” _

Her form fades from a physical state to an ethereal figure. She makes no noise as she sits, stands, and rips the collar off her neck. She leaves it on the floor and tip-toes to the bedroom door. She cannot cast spells as she consumed food contaminated by damage magicka regeneration poisons, and her mind is slightly woozy from the magical _brand _forced upon the _dov _woman’s body. But her thu’um is not simply magicka; it is a dragon’s innate sense of being, a form of magic most mortals can never hope to reach in a lifetime. She is blessed with the words of her kin and she lets them burn in her mind as she slips out the chamber and moves with feather-light steps to the alchemy lab below.

She doesn’t need fancy ingredients to create the poisons and potions. She’s seen Kara and Babette do it enough times for the process to be burnt into the _dov_’s mind. She fingers _nirnroot_ and _ice wraith teeth_ to concoct a potion of invisibility. She adds sprinkles of _vampire dust_ to the mixture and lets it sit with water for several long minutes before she sets it to the side. She sprinkles _wheat_ with mashed _eyes of sabre cats_ and _butterfly_ wings before the water is added to the disgusting paste. The restore health potion is downed immediately and, despite the foul taste, she feels strength return to her form. She cracks pulsing _chaurus eggs_ and adds green _hanging moss_ and _glow dust_ to create a damage magicka poison. The smile on her face is wicked when she brews the damage magicka regeneration potions with _human hearts_ and bulbous _spider eggs_. By the time the laboratory finishes boiling a paralysis potion with spindly _canis root_ and _swamp fungal pods,_ she has found simple traveler clothes and a bag in an upstairs armoire. She makes a quick _resist poison _concoction using a rotten _falmer ear_ and _charred skeever hide_ before the _dov _is ready.

She returns upstairs.

She sets the bag of potions on the side.

She takes out the paralysis potion and resist poison potion.

She undresses and lets her nude form linger at the bedside.

She pinches her nose and forces the revolting contents of the resist poison potion down her throat.

She tips her head back and allows the paralysis potion to fill her mouth.

She straddles Ondolemar, arms crossed over her breasts, and smiles at his startled face. Then—She flutters her eyes and exposes her chest once the look of his _lust _takes over. His erection prods her beneath his clothes and she lets him shove her to the bed. He says things she doesn’t care about, something about _fucking a tool _of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, before his lips crash into hers. She feels her body begin to go numb but the _dov _opens her mouth and lets his tongue dominate hers. His hands begin to move to her bare torso but before the leader of the Thalmor Justicars can fondle her, he stops. She smiles and pushes his paralyzed form aside then spits out the remains of the paralysis potion unto his chest.

“So sweet, so sad, so predictable.” The _dov _is sluggish from parts of the paralysis potion remaining in her system but she _knows _her resist poison brew outlasts the paralysis’ duration and numbs the effects. She calmly flips the Justicar unto his back and lets his murderous, enraged eyes meet hers. “You cannot tame a _dov_, _joor_.”

She climbs off the bed and utters a soft, _“Tiid klo ul.” _To give her more time.

Each potion of _damage magicka _and _damage_ _magicka regeneration _are worth their weight in gold in her eyes. She recognizes the body is thirty-one and acknowledges the time her and her Dragonborn lost with each pour of potion into the paralyzed high elf’s mouth. Zaammeytiid hums a joyful tune and traces circles on the elf’s cheek while his body begins to convulse and jerk erratically. She sneers when his eyes bulge and his tongue swells. She chuckles when his veins begin to pop from his skin, not at the point of bursting but in a state of agony.

“It won’t kill you,” she whispers into his ear. “I want you to remember… Every time you look in the mirror… Every time your magic fails… When your fellow _Thalmor _realize you are as incapable and useless as the races you high elves loathe… Remember, Ondolemar—everything you did to _her_. A _dov _does not forget the sins committed by others. She is _my _Dragonborn until death takes her to Sithis’ Void and enshrouds her in the Night Mother’s grace. As for the Third Aldmeri Dominion—I’ll leave a message in your blood.”

Her teeth find his arms and she rips through the fabric of his robes and into his golden flesh. She paints a portrait in his blood; she leaves the name _ZAAMMEYTIID _in sanguine-red upon the wall directly adjacent the bed’s head. She blows him a kiss and offers a wave as she ducks out of the bedroom, dons simple traveler’s attire, and downs her invisibility potion. She has three minutes before it runs out and she knows she’ll be gone from Markath long before then. She recalls hearing a _dov _roar a challenge from across the sky months ago, when she was first taken from the Embassy’s torture chambers to Ondolemar’s home. She finds herself heading in that direction with a shout of bend will on her lips for any guard unfortunate enough to find themselves in her crosshairs.

It will be fun riding a dragon to Falkreath. It will be a nightmare to explain herself to Astrid, but Zaammeytiid never liked the bitch anyway.


	28. unworthy of her spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid arrives at the sanctuary. she deals with the aftermath of what the thalmor did to her and kara. an unlikely voice provides direction on the next step to take.

The brand on the body _annoys _her. It means Sanguine cannot aid in keeping the body safe while Kara rests and heals. It means Zaammeytiid must rely on her thu’um to protect the two. It means she is forced not to destroy and run rampant across the lands but to _sneak _and _cower _past enemies. By the time Zaammeytiid finds a dragon to ride and makes for Falkreath’s sanctuary, she wants to rip a thousand skulls from skin and yearns to leave the realm in a cascade of blood.

It’s almost worth all the trouble she went through breaking them both out from the Thalmor’s grasp once Zaammeytiid strolls in through the Black Door and greets Astrid with a grin. The woman’s face is as pale as a ghost and her mouth hangs open in unspoken words while Zaammeytiid pushes past her, trots down the steps, and emerges into the waterfall chamber with a loud, _fus! _

The shout draws the attention of _everyone _in the sanctuary. It pleases her to see the fear etched on all’s faces, to see the disappointment in the Saxhleel’s eyes once he realizes the body of the woman he cares for is not _Kara _but the _dov_. Zaammeytiid puts a hand on her hip and smiles broadly at each of them.

“What happened to you?” It’s Astrid who speaks the first words.

“Kara fucked a Daedra and got captured by Thalmor. They don’t appreciate the Daedric Prince’s taste,” the words go over the heads of almost everyone in the chamber but the _dov _doesn’t care. She shrugs and takes off her shirt, then turns to show off the healed scars of not only a physical, metal branding, but also the magical brand that lingers in her flesh and seeps into the body’s magicka. “Remind you of something, Festus? See, I recall a certain jester getting shit like this! Seems they refined the spell for my Dragonborn to test. It’s _annoying. _Get it off.”

“I,” and the older assassin pauses. A thoughtful look comes on his face and he nods, striding to the _dov _woman’s side. “I will do what I can. It may take some time.”

“We have all the time, actually.” Astrid states from the stairs. “By which I mean a week flat. Word’s arrived that the emperor is taking his time traveling to Solitude.”

“Is that enough time?” Zaammeytiid does not ask but _demands _the answer of Festus.

Babette’s eyes narrow. “You _dovah _are intolerable. Rude. I’m going back to my alchemy. Come, Alysoin.” The two vampires leave the room without further thought.

Zaammeytiid’s eyes remain on Festus.

He nods slowly. “I’ve done it once before, have I not? Can’t be that hard to repeat—I reckon it’ll be faster since I know what I’m doing. The Thalmor underestimate the wisdom of an experienced mage.”

“Good.” Zaammeytiid moves to follow him, but a hand snaps unto her arm. She stiffens at the contact and side-eyes Veezara. _Release me, joor. Release me!_

As if he reads her thoughts, the Shadowscale lets Zaammeytiid go.

“Where is she?” It’s a familiar question, one she’s heard back during the time a certain Daedric Prince lifted her out of a hole.

“Oh? The Saxhleel calls for Kara, the humble Dragonborn and Listener? She is _broken_, you Saxhleel! The Dark Brotherhood would be wise to fear the Thalmor’s ruthlessness. She endured enough before I took over.”

It’s a statement that strikes a nerve in the Shadowscale. She finds Veezara’s eyes cross with a look that’s as rare and savory as the joy of burnt fields and strewn corpses: _fear_.

“She’s alive. _Relax,” _The _dov _snaps at him. “I have chosen not to kill the Dragonborn! I am merciful, _joor, _even if my heart longs for death. But her mind is not strong like a true _dov_, her _dovahkiin _is only a label that keeps her chest breathing and her throat un-slit.”

“She’s far braver than you.” Veezara’s fists clench. “I wish to speak to her.”

She shrugs. “A funny statement. But no. Her mind succumbed to their methods. If I relinquish control she will _flee _for the Aldmeri Dominion’s puckered asshole. She will turn tail and bow at their feet. You may remember her as a strong person. She was strong, for a time, but even the strong bend to survive life’s onslaught. _Beyn. _I feel disgust at your words! Take honor in acknowledging my feats; I am returning to the sanctuary with her alive. Broken, but alive.”

“Alive is a state of mortality, _dov_.” Gabriella’s form slips between Veezara and pushes him back while she keeps a sharp, dark watch on Zaammeytiid. The dunmer’s eyes narrow. “How broken is this mind?”

“A thousand pieces does not suffice to describe her.”

“Tch,” Gabriella straightens upright and turns to Veezara. “She’ll recover. It will not be easy. We must put up with the dear, kind _dov _and her homicidal tendencies until then. Can you manage, brother?”

“I can try.” Is all he says. He walks away with a faint, “I’ll be in Mother’s sanctuary.”

“You lied to him.” Gabriella’s grip on Zaammeytiid’s hand is tight despite the woman wearing a seemingly innocent smile. The dunmer pulls the _dov _woman up the set of stairs leading deeper into the sanctuary; she brings Zaammeytiid to a room with not only an already-busy Babette and Alysoin, but also Festus with all his tomes and magical scrolls. Gabriella shoves Zaammeytiid into a stone seat and stands behind her.

“So serious.” The _dov _snarls. “Unlike you, as Kara would say.”

“Truly a _dov_—You are cruel and you are vicious. A cunning, manipulative entity,” the dunmer answers without pause. Her smile disappears and her dark eyes stare into Zaammeytiid’s with challenge. “I pray to the Night Mother that Kara finds a way to split you from herself and slay you in one night.”

“A dream, perhaps.”

“Dreams are worth chasing sometimes,” Gabriella tilts her head to one side. “Do you not dream of flight, _dov? _They say a dragon who cannot fly is as good as a corpse’s head. Your mind will _die_ and you will cease but your body continues.”

“A tragedy I have lived a thousand times, night stalker. For a child of darkness you say strange, hopeful things.” Zaammeytiid holds still as Festus begins to flip open tomes and start a ritual marked in chalk on the afflicted, branded part of the body.

Gabriella smiles. “Aye, for the night is most beautiful when the darkness consumes the sun. Why not dream, _dov_? Dream for your Dragonborn to heal.”

“You are proposing something.” The _dov _furrows her brows. “I do not like it.”

“Do you know the Speakers of old? Of two-hundred years ago? Of a time when the Dark Brotherhood’s name seeped across the lands and affixed fear into the hearts of people? There were several, _dov_, but the one I wish to tell you of was a man framed by his own assassins and executed. The Night Mother welcomed him for he was the epitome of a faithful servant to Sithis, a blessing of the Void,” the dunmer’s hand falls to Zaammeytiid’s shoulder and Gabriella grins. “His name is Lucien Lachance. He is the spectral assassin whose death became life in the Void, a soul capable of being called by the _living_ to continue our Dread Father’s work. You see where this goes?”

“I have a suspicion I do. But I do not want to ruin your surprise.” The _dov _grits her teeth.

“You told him you were one of two halves of the Listener,” Gabriella’s grip tightens. “What blasphemy! You who are _dov, _sworn to the side of the World Eater! You claim the esteemed title like it is passed out freely and not chosen by the unholy matron.”

“If Gabriella speaks the truth—You have sinned in the eyes of the Night Mother. You do best to seek atonement, _dov_.” Festus pauses his spellcasting to say the words. As he continues, the feeling of fingers gouging through skin and digging around the brand as if it were solid metal comes to light.

The _dov _woman clenches her teeth not to scream.

“I am not bound by _Sithis!” _Zaammeytiid hisses.

Gabriella sighs. “No, no, of course not, of course. But your Dragonborn is. Perhaps atonement may lend you the Night Mother’s blessing. You spoke so freely of Kara’s mind healing, _dov_, but we know the Thalmor are no pushovers in torture and manipulation. Kara is a spirit in need of guidance. Let the Night Mother lead you both to peace.”

The brand looks like molten gold when Festus lifts it from her skin. Zaammeytiid cannot hide the bellows and roars in agony from the pain. She thrashes in her seat but finds Gabriella holds her still with surprisingly strong, firm hands. The dunmer offers a pleasant smile as Festus casts a restoration spell unto the _dov _woman’s arm and the flesh mends. It does nothing for the body’s ebony-black Dremora tissue, which the _dov _finds absolutely atrocious, but it is good to see the brand gone and feel magicka flow back into reach. Flames spells rise to her fingertips and she grins to herself as she imagines the possibilities. The joy is short-lived. A thought comes to mind and she grimaces, stands, and snatches a tome of _Conjure Dremora _from Festus’ pile before the old man can stop her. The _dov _slips away, heading into a deeper room of the sanctuary.

She finds herself in Cicero’s old bedroom. The sight of the Keeper’s keeping tomes makes her pause. She finds a paper and scrawls out a note to the man, briefly filling him in on the ‘oops, Kara got captured! Hope you haven’t died of loneliness in a year!’ fiasco with the Thalmor. She makes a note to find a courier later before her mind shifts to the Conjure Dremora spellbook.

She pops it open, sighs, and reads the written incantation aloud. It’s annoyingly longer than Kara’s spellcasting but she doesn’t want to waste so much magicka on _that_. Sure enough, in one orb of big, beefy purple magic, the _dov _woman growls as gauntlets grab her. A Daedric Prince’s rich red eyes meet her own in disbelief.

_“Dov.” _The words are venomous and disbelief melds to raw hate. A pissy Daedra or an angry Daedra is a dangerous Daedra—But she keeps herself calm.

For a _dov_, anyways.

“Long time no see, Sanguine.” Zaammeytiid makes a point of talking _casually _like the two are old friends. She rips herself from his grasp and crosses her arms. “Welcome to Falkreath’s sanctuary, by the way. Dusty old place. It’s been partially restored since I last walked these desecrated grounds.”

_“Where is she?” _The familiar question makes her grin.

“Who?”

And the Daedra, momentarily, looks less the stable physical manifestation of an obsidian-skinned Dremora and much more the liquid-like, pulsating _red _of a sanguine-hued wine that threatens to engulf and envelop not only Zaammeytiid but everything else in the room. And beyond it, if she had to guess. It’s awe-inspiring and trembling and not even the _dov _can stop goosebumps from rising on her skin as she stares at the Daedric Prince and watches the Daedra’s form change and slowly shrink back to the tall Dremora-like form he prefers. The raw power is a reminder not to provoke the Daedric Prince more than necessary. It’s been a year…

“She’s alive,” Zaammeytiid grits her teeth. “She’s alive, okay? _Relax._”

Sanguine ignores her and fishes out a bottle of wine from thin air. He uncorks it with one hand and begins to drink.

“So, you two went at it like rabbits from what I can tell,” the _dov _woman regrets her phrasing but refuses to let fear show when the Daedra’s eyes become a deep, dark glow of sanguine-red. “—And Thalmor attacked you. Or, rather, her. I _warned _you that you could be banished, Sanguine. Easiest way to rid a Dremora.”

Another glare makes her swallow nervously.

“—But that’s the past—This is the present, so let’s not overreact,” the _dov _finally says. Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. “She’s alive. She needs a break right now. I’ll take care of her and when she’s good and set to face existence again I’ll let her see you first. But you need to _trust _me, because I’m not doing this out of virtue of being a good _dov. _I’m doing what is necessary to keep us alive.”

By the time she finishes the rant, she finds Sanguine on the second alto wine.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes. No. Both.” The Daedra growls.

“Good. I’m not repeating myself. Kara will be fine.”

His eyes are horrifying. How her Dragonborn could stand to look at them for more than a few seconds is a marvel in of itself. The Lord of Debauchery is as deadly as the rest; the Prince is not called Prince without reason. His power rivals the Divines and can make even _dov_ tremble.

“…Don’t look at me like _that.”_ Zaammeytiid’s voice drops and the _dov _adjusts her eyes.

She feels hands on her shoulders and she looks up in bewilderment to see the Daedric Prince’s gaze desperate and searching. She feels the bloody red irises lock with hers and she can detect and feel and sense every wild, lethal emotion that threatens to burst the Prince’s own composure. It’s frighteningly _mortal._ It isn’t how a Daedra should be. And, after a second, Sanguine releases her and turns away with a new bottle in his hand. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“—You’re weakened.” The _dov _realizes with a snort. It’s a strange turn of events. “What a surprise. Is that why you’re desperate? Hoping to get some return out of Kara? She’ll probably sleep with you again—”

Sanguine doesn’t respond.

“Fine! Be that way! _Beyn,_” Zaammeytiid hisses. “If you were _stronger_ you could have intervened. The Thalmor are meat-covered skeletons with golden flesh. I’d have devoured them all if I had the chance.”

“What happened to her? To you? _Dov._” The Prince doesn’t look over. His question is less a question and more a _command_.

She hates to comply but relents in hopes it keeps the damn Daedra Lord calm.

“They wanted to turn us into a tool for the Third Aldmeri Dominion. They emphasized the _tool _part—Kara received the brunt of it,” Zaammeytiid says. The _dov _looks off to the side, eyes falling upon Cicero’s old bed. “She’s not the Kara you remember. It’s been a while. Remember that for when she stirs. It won’t be the reunion you want, or the reunion you hope for. It may not be a reunion at all. Perhaps she’ll be terrified of you—”

“She won’t be.” The Prince rebukes the thought immediately. A lazy smile rises to his lips and he lowers his wine bottle. “You know of consumers, _dov_. Come from another world. A strange place called ‘Earth’ where everything is decided by _sports_. She won’t tell you this—But I know she desires having a poster of her favorite Daedra on a wall. That’s how we met. She sought me out before the others! The best comes first,” He laughs at the concept. “She stole a kiss from me. The Lord of Debauchery is not _easily_ stolen from! It is a feat of honor!”

He falls quiet. He takes a sip of wine.

“The Dark Brotherhood want me to pray to the Night Mother. Repent for my ‘sins.’” Zaammeytiid throws out the thought with a snort.

“Do it.” Sanguine says.

She raises a brow. “No.”

“No. _Do it. _I’m serious, and that’s something coming from a Daedra like me.” The Prince waves off her rejection with a huff. “You want to. I’ve already sensed it, _dov_, I can feel every desire you have. Even the weird ones. Does Kara know about what went on at the Dawnstar Sanctuary?” It strikes a nerve in her and she turns on him in an instant, fangs bared and heart thumping. The Daedric Prince waves her off and gives her a disgustingly wicked grin. “Guess not. You know, you might try living it up sometime, getting a feel for bedding mortals. I know _every _desire, Zaammeytiid, and you _want something _from that jester.”

“Do not speak of this with me,” the _Dov _growls and clenches her fists. “This is irrelevant!”

“Nah, nah, it is, it is.” Sanguine looks thoughtfully at her and smiles. “Because you are being _so _helpful with Kara. It only makes sense I am _so _helpful to your _problem _with Cicero—”

“I’ll speak to the Night Mother,” Zaammeytiid spits out the words and glares at him. She wants his blood, his veins cut open! _Spill the blood,_ she wants, _spill the blood!_

“Good.”

“And I hope you burn in Oblivion,” Zaammeytiid adds in utter hate. She doesn’t dare lift a hand to strangle the Daedra despite the urge lingering.

“Bring her back _the way she is supposed to be._” Sanguine’s words are not merely a command but a warning. He offers a friendly smile to the _dov _and takes one last sip before disappearing in an orb of purple magic.

She returns to the keeping tomes in Cicero’s room but there’s little time for quiet. The woman’s studying of the old tomes is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. She looks and spies Veezara in the doorway; the Shadowscale stares at her and her at him for a long, tense moment before either dare speak.

“What are you doing _here?”_ Veezara’s voice is as venomous as the poison on his blades. He’s full of disgust.

“I’m reading the keeping tomes. You must be here for a reason, Saxhleel, to wander into the chambers of the man who nearly killed you. A cruel hit he was, his skills are not to be underestimated. Or, rather,” she doesn’t show any fumbling with her slip-up but continues with the same smooth, lethal tone. _“Were.” _

“I came for the keeping tomes. Hand them over.” Veezara doesn’t seem to register her words but she is a smart _dov_.

_“Gol hah. _Sit. Tell me what you do with the keeping tomes, Saxhleel._”_ The _dov _commands him to sit and he sits cross-legged on the floor. She shuts the door of the chamber and sits on Cicero’s old bed with one leg crossed over the other. Her shoulders relax and she grins at the Shadowscale, utterly helpless in the grasp of such powerful, innate magic. The thu’um transcends simple magicka! It’s a feat to be proud of and to cherish.

The Argonian’s voice comes out as stiff and rigid as his body posture. “I take an interest in the traditions of the keeping tomes. With the Keeper’s death, no one is left to tend to the Night Mother. It is not traditionally done this way. But the Night Mother must be preserved.”

“Good, good,” Zaammeytiid hums in satisfaction. Her grin bares teeth and her eyes reflect the abhorrent draconic nature she harbors. “Tell me, Saxhleel, did my slip-up go by unnoticed? Did you notice my words?”

“I did. You spoke of the Keeper as if he lives.”

_A sly, sneaky Saxhleel you are. Kara would be proud. And fearful of you telling everyone else. _The _dov _woman grits her teeth. _I must not let him investigate this. The fool would be put in danger. _And she’s reminded, briefly, of Sanguine’s irritating laugh and the statements he made about her having a jester problem. It’s aggravating to consider that the Daedra possesses a hint of truth. She growls at no one. _I do it for Kara. Not for him. _

“You will suppress these thoughts. Forget this conversation after it ends. You will close your eyes and sit in this room for hours. When you emerge, Veezara the Saxhleel, you will not recall what we have spoken of. You will think you shared the secrets of the keeping tomes with me but you will not remember _this_. Lastly,” the _Dov _speaks each command with a sharp, curt tone. The Argonian does not respond as she continues. “If anyone asks what we spoke of—You tell them you quarreled with me over my refusal to allow Kara to come home.”

She grins when no response comes. The _dov _woman excuses herself and exits the room. She leaves the keeping tomes in a semi-circle around the Saxhleel. Her bend will magic is powerful; even a Shadowscale can fall prey to its power. If not for the fact she left a message with the state of Ondolemar’s body, she would have shouted him into submission and made him kneel before cutting his throat. _It would have been so beautiful… To shred the deep, golden flesh and rip out his snow-white hair. A just end for a man who hurt my Dragonborn. _

“I’m heading out.” Zaammeytiid tells Astrid with a grin.

Astrid’s eyes tell her all she needs to know about how the leader of the Brotherhood feels toward the _dov_.

Truthfully, she does not venture farther than Falkreath. The woman finds a courier to send the note to Dawnstar’s sanctuary. She sends her off with a handful of gold, and _gol hah_’s the woman to ensure the money is not pocketed. It is not much, but she hopes the jester is alive. If he died while she and Kara were imprisoned by Thalmor, it would be an aggravating thing to experience and deal with. A _really _depressed Kara would be as bad as the deadly Daedric Prince that shelters her. The _dov _does not feel like dealing with either of the two. She growls to herself on the way back to Falkreath and ditches the stolen horse long before she strolls through the Black Door. She makes her way to the sanctuary room and observes Veezara mixing oils and preservatives. The Shadowscale sees her and his eyes narrow before he turns away and resumes his work.

“I need to pray, Saxhleel.”

“To the World Eater?” The Shadowscale’s composure is tense, unlike him. His hate for the _dov _knows no bounds.

“To the Night Mother.” The _dov _hisses. “You either leave by free will or by my choice. Which shall it be?”

“Make it quick.” 

Zaammeytiid turns to the casket. Veezara tells the truth: the casket is clean and the corpse inside is preserved at his efforts. It’s almost noble. She doesn’t feel an ethereal pull like Kara describes in the past. She doesn’t hear the soft voice or firm, loving words of a matron given away to Sithis and bound by marriage. She doesn’t notice anything beyond the pungent smells of the preservatives, the oils, and the herbal concoctions used. But in spite of the gnawing feeling that her efforts are all _worthless_, she takes a step forward and kneels at Night Mother’s coffin. Then she drops so both knees touch the ground and she brings her hands together to pray.

“Unholy matron.” The _dov _forces the words through clenched teeth. “I have come to seek _atonement _for my callousness. I am half your Listener. But I am not yours.”

_Disgraceful one… _

Zaammeytiid feels her blood run cold. She stiffens. It isn’t like her to possess a reaction of this caliber. She stares at the coffin and breathes, “Night Mother.”

_I am not your Mother. You are not my child._ The unholy matron does not hiss. Her voice is a steadfast storm, an eye in the thick of a _Void _the _dov _does not call home.

“Kara is,” the _dov _says at last. “And she’s a shitshow, Night Mother.”

_Do not speak my Listener’s name. For you are unworthy of her spirit. _

The _dov _woman cracks open an eye and hisses. “You have yet to hear my pleas! I seek atonement and aid in restoring your precious _Listener _to health! Her mind is ill! _Help me!_”

_You care nothing for the Listener._

_You seek this only out of convenience._

_A price to pay for others to accept you._

_A price to pay to use that body._

_You are… not worthy._

And the voice stops. And she curses in the _dov _tongue and roars as loud as she can. And for a second she considers opening her mouth, screaming the _yol _that will light the corpse and turn it to ash under her thu’um’s might. She inhales deeply and feels her lungs burn. But instead of destroying the Night Mother’s body, instead of incinerating it and every individual in the sanctuary into ash, the _dov _woman screams horrifically and stomps her feet. She curses and rants and snarls in aggravation. Her eyes seethe in hate and anger for the Night Mother, for the Dark Brotherhood, for Kara and Veezara and all the other _disgusting joorre _that dare impose on her freedom. She rakes the walls with her wails and shouts until her vocal chords are hoarse. She thinks of the Daedric Lord who safeguards the Dragonborn, and she thinks of how much she wants to see his blood flow like rivers through Tamriel and across Nirn.

She falls to her knees, out of breath and restless. Her teeth grit and her fangs bare themselves as pitiful, tiny human canines. She can imagine the feeling of _her _body, of being a force that is large, imposing, ominous, _feared_, and though she swears for a moment the sensation of air flowing across wings and a tail twitching for balance seeps through her mind, there is nothing. She hisses and kicks over a bowl of herbs. She throws ancient tomes across the sanctuary. Her eyes turn back to the corpse of the Night Mother and she stalks up to the coffin with her hands clenched to the point of shaking.

“She promised me _freedom_,” Zaammeytiid _snarls_ at the matron. “She promised me an end to _this suffering_.”

The Night Mother does not respond.

The _dov _woman’s eyes darken. “I do not need your help, you rotten book weight! I am _Zaammeytiid, _the slave of time, and I _will help the Listener!” _

And it’s spoken with such resolve that even the _dov _pauses a second and stiffens. But it’s a temporary setback, it ends in seconds, and she turns heel on the casket and makes for the doorway of the sanctuary.

“I will find a way to save Kara myself. She is not _broken _to the point of no return. She is… a very, very dangerous woman. All those broken pieces you see jagging from her,” Zaammeytiid looks over her shoulder. “They are every bit as sharp and deadly to us as they are to her side. _Do not underestimate the strength of a battered soul. _She will rip you to pieces and set you ablaze like the true _dovahkiin _she is. I will prove that.”

_I will not aid you. _The Night Mother’s whisper stops her from crossing the threshhold of her sanctuary.

“You will not.” Zaammeytiid affirms.

_But another is capable._

The _dov_’s eyes widen again. She stiffens and turns around. “Who? Who is capable?”

_Dear, beloved Cicero… A faithful child of darkness. You spared his life… He will aid you in recovering the Listener and bringing her back into my embrace._

No matter how many questions she asks or statements she makes, Zaammeytiid fails to get any other response from the Night Mother. A vague part of her mind questions how the Night Mother even talks to _her_, for she is but a half of a Listener yet not _the _Listener. By the time she’s on the road to Dawnstar, on yet another stolen horse, that thought has vanished and been replaced by something more infuriating: _Why does everything come back to the bloody jester? _


	29. dovah dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid heads to dawnstar in hopes of finding cicero. she counts the blessing of many deities when she's rescued from a thalmor squad and taken to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovely readers if u happen to notice typos pls feel free to message me so i can correct them  
i dont have a beta reader and i try to proof things before posting but stuff still slips through /:

She leaves for Dawnstar the next morning. Her horse is a stallion that possesses sharp brown eyes and a curious, flickering gold tail. His pelt is a light brown and he has a creamy patch of hide on his rump. Though she knows not his name, she gives him the acclaimed title of _Horse. _Horse the Horse and Zaammeytiid gallop across Skyrim’s roads; the stallion has a speed and stamina she respects for a _landwalker_. It’s not an easy ride; Dawnstar is directly opposite of Falkreath on the map—or at least it is in her mind—and plenty of dangers lurk throughout the wild lands. Unfortunately for her, no _dovah _are present to offer assistance.

What she finds plenty of are Thalmor.

The golden-skinned elves seem to be everywhere now. Riverwood, Whiterun, and even the small inns and settlements that dot the trail leading into the Pale and heading to Dawnstar. She knows why; she smiles whenever she thinks of the message she left the Dominion. A mere _dov_, a _tool for the Third Aldmeri Dominion, _not only _seduces _the leader of the Thalmor Justicars but renders his magic permanently useless? Destroys the powerful mage’s abilities in a single night? Right under the noses of his Thalmor guards! Escapes from Markarth unseen and alone! Truly a _force _to be reckoned with, that Dragonborn!... or the _dov_, though she knows the Thalmor don’t intend to let knowledge of the two halves out.

Her act of leaving Ondolemar alive but his magicka channels desecrated is a personal finger to the entire Dominion. She doesn’t regret it, even when she finds herself contending with squads of Thalmor armed specifically to hunt _her_.

_I enjoy the challenge. I will put you in your place, elves! _Is all the woman thinks whenever her shout roasts an elf alive, or whenever her brand new enchanted Daedric blade—courtesy of the Brotherhood’s armory—finds the soft gold flesh to sink into. It’s a delicious rush of power and satiates the _dov_’s need to dominate.

But the Thalmor wind up presenting an unintended consequence to the _dov_: they take too long to move past or massacre. She has a time limit of a week before the Dark Brotherhood proceeds with the faux assassination. In one week, the actions she and her half take—and Kara will take some if she has anything to say about it—will determine whether or not the Dark Brotherhood in the Falkreath sanctuary are killed off. Even though she knows Babette, Nazir, the jester, and the _Listener _live, there are others that now play interesting roles in the complicated game their lives reside in. It’s a frustrating thought to reflect on. The _dov _woman decides to leave it alone and make Kara deal with it whenever the time comes to act.

Kara _will _be there to act, Zaammeytiid reassures herself and Horse.

Avoiding Thalmor makes the day trip take two. She rests only as much as Horse needs and by the time they’re galloping through the pale, the _dov _hits a point where she intends to retire Horse and steal another steed in his place. Clouds overhead obscure light and make it hard to focus; the environment blends together in a mess of colors, sights, and sounds.

Until an arrow shoots across the plain and skewers Horse in the neck. The stallion rears up and makes unholy noises as two more elven arrows follow. Zeemmeytiid is thrown off and she hits the ground _hard_. But she is a _dov_ and _dov _laugh at their blood! Rise to the challenge! Her heart sings songs of blood to be shed as she forces herself up. Horse takes off with a gushing trail of arterial blood in his path; he’ll bleed out in minutes and she can’t stop it. Her focus becomes avoiding the gleaming elven arrows that reek of foul poisons and brews.

_“Laas!”_ The _dov _can’t finish the shout fast enough. She holds back on the shout’s full power, needing only to witness a glimpse of the Thalmor hiding in the brush, the rocks, and the thickets lining the road of the Pale. Her vision swarms with red dots and she ducks another arrow as she counts—_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… _The total is an annoying number and at that second she despises it in comparison to the humble eight or humbler seven.

Her choice to hold back and restrain her use of her thu’um becomes important when she hears Thalmor spring from behind her, with one jumping off a boulder and attempting to shove glass swords through her heart. This particular squad fights _to kill _and the thought drives her into an adrenaline-fueled frenzy as her body whips erratically fast and she claims another soul for… She steals a soul within the Daedric dagger’s serrated edge. She is _not_ a heir of Sithis! The souls she takes are for herself, or for the empty gems she carries on her person!

But those thoughts become topics to dissect later. She crushes the dead Thalmor under a foot and feels another two arrowheads slam into the boulder she stood in front of prior. The shots are getting quicker and she’s lost track of whether or not more Thalmor are present. The _dov _needs a moment of peace; she breathes, _“Tiid klo ul!” _

The world pales in color and slows. She takes off in a run. It will be more fun to play cat and mouse with fellow predators of the wilds to compete against.

She loses the first squad after three hours of hiking beyond the brink of Dawnstar’s coastal town and into the wilderness that surrounds its northeastern side. The Thalmor wear full suits of glass armor and though the material is light, it is nothing in comparison to her own enchanted shrouds. Her uniform is magically imbued to give her an advantage in the shadows, and she finds the shadows to become more frequent as darker and darker clouds roll across the sky. She becomes not a prey but their predator. She doubles back to the initial squad and stalks them one-by-one before retrieving Kara’s new bow—she’ll be happy when she sees it—and pulsating Daedric arrows. The arrows scream and cry out for blood silently. She’s happy to appease their needs and though the _dov _woman isn’t a good shot, she waits for the right moment to pick them off.

Six of them fall to the arrows. Three of the bodies are in such covered positions she can retrieve the arrows after and stash them back in Kara’s quiver. She switches to her Daedric blade for the last ones and creeps through the brush to one particularly lonely Thalmor. It’s strange to see the elf so alone, but she knows it is because of _her_—or she thinks so, up to the point of boots kicking her back in and throwing her prone. She hisses and tries to roll over; a shout of _fus ro dah _sends two of the Thalmor from a second squad flying backward. One elf’s body snaps in two from the impact while the second disappears in a smattering of bloody yellow across the canopy. She gets on her back and kicks at an elf that tries to grab her by the ankle. The Thalmor switch to arrows; three bows aim at her with arrows already notched.

She stiffens.

_“Ondolemar sends his regards_. Zaammeytiid.” One Thalmor hisses. She rolls out of the way of one arrow but the other two hit her gut and back. She curses aloud and freezes as a familiar numbness starts to set in.

This squad is not a death squad.

Seven Thalmor total stand over her, with one being the sole survivor of the first squad. Their eyes are vengeful and she hates that she cannot growl or snarl at them for all they are worth. She wants to scream, to kick, and to struggle when they haul her up and bind her hands behind her back. She sees one Thalmor approach with a branding spell charging in her hand and all Zaammeytiid’s paralyzed form can do is pray.

_Night Mother. Protect me._

An ebony blade slits the elf’s sharp flesh and flies to impale into a tree. The Thalmor’s snap their heads at the wild land’s shadows and repeating terrain. Their eyes are alert but the flash of red is all one makes out before another ebony blade plunges through a Thalmor’s eye and pushes into their cranium; the body drops immediately. The black-and-red scheme of a jester’s motley settles in the peripheral of Zaammeytiid’s vision as her body is shoved to the ground and abandoned so the Thalmor can defend themselves. The jester offers a cruel grin at the high elves as he engages them in a dance of daggers. It is truly the _whirlwind of blades _she’s heard of him in the many restarts of many Dragonborn’s. His steps are light and his balance pristine as he slips in-and-out of the Thalmor’s personal space, all while wielding two more daggers in his hands and having a third strapped to high calf in case of emergency.

This is nothing more than a show for the Keeper to participate in. His laughter bubbles out and it’s infectious nature makes her spirits lift. Zaammeytiid’s paralyzed body cannot turn and watch the final Thalmor fall but she envisions a glorious, bloody scene when she hears the final _thud _of a corpse crumbling to the ground. A hum approaches her ear and her body is picked up and carried in the Keeper’s arms as he begins to take her somewhere. She can only guess where, and only guess in her mind, but her eyes admire the smear of crimson across his face. The elf blood makes him look beautiful.

His eyes catch her own and he smiles in a well-mannered, jolly way, as if the two aren’t mass murderers and he didn’t just slaughter seven Aldmer.

“Silly Listener! Silly Listener returns! Returns, returns, returns—” The man sings the words as he walks. “What a joyous occasion, a grandiose day! Finally the Keeper and Listener reunite! How long these months have been for poor, poor Cicero! He’s waited and waited for you, Listener, and finally the day is here! Finally, finally, finally!”

She can’t respond and suddenly the paralyzing agents in her system seem a lot more aggravating.

“Cicero has waited, just as you said! Waited and watched and _hoped _the Listener did not forget poor, poor Cicero! But silly Listener did not! Silly Listener is here! Cicero can tell these things, he is very good at sneaking and spying and watching and listening,” the man looks thoughtful. “Cicero is very glad he snuck and spied and watched and listened today! Those nasty elves scrounge the wilderness but not the sanctuary’s grounds, oh no! Cicero has many a collection of elf parts cooling in ice. Cicero uses the body fat to make candles and light fire when wood runs low…”

She recognizes the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Cicero takes her to the coast and holds her the same way—and it really is a bit close—the entire stroll. He walks her to the Black Door, cheerfully declares the word “Innocence, my brother!” and proceeds to give Zaammeytiid a grand tour of Dawnstar’s sanctuary. It’s drastically different than when she forced her way past spectral assassins and set off traps. The place was full of cob-webs, dust, and evidence of a dying faction.

Cicero’s done a number on the place. He explains it all to her as he shows off the main hall and its pristine, beautiful Sithis’ stained glass. He excitedly explains, with many laughs and terrible humor, the number of people he’s slowly killed over the past months to build up a steady supply of cooking pots and utensils. He shows her the training room and the mannequins he’s refurbished and set up, and according to him it is purely coincidence the training dummies resemble a certain human form of a certain hulking sheepdog. Zaammeytiid listens to the man drawl on about the old tomes he’s gathered and organized into a deadly library, the botany garden he’s slowly cultivated with a dozen blooming nightshade and deathbell plants, and she notes Cicero spends an extra ten minutes thoroughly discussing the erected platform where the Night Mother will be placed.

He’s pleased when he finishes speaking. He looks down at her and smiles like he expects her to say something, before the man begins to laugh and whisks her away again. “Yes, yes, Cicero remembers! Silly, lovely Listener is unable to move or speak! Yes…”

_Now you remember. _Zaammeytiid groans inside.

There’s a surprising amount of rooms converted into private quarters. Cicero gently lays the paralyzed woman down and straightens upright. He taps his chin, makes a face, and darts out of the room. For what, she has no idea, but he doesn’t return even after the paralyzing agents wear off. She still has oozing cuts from the elven arrowheads but the blood’s mixed with the darker fabrics of her uniform. She hisses at the annoying sensation of bloody material sticking to her flesh.

“Listener is hurt?” The voice makes her head snap up.

Cicero holds a small tray. A bowl of something that smells _delicious _rests on it. The jester’s half-grin is devious and dashing as he dances to her bedside and holds the tray out.

“You _can_ cook?” Is all Zaammeytiid thinks. She isn’t one to deny good food. Even if her pride demands it be served rather than simply given to the _dov_.

She makes to sit up and takes the tray afterward. Her body winces.

“Cicero will fetch dry clothes. Warm, dry clothes for the warm, warm Listener.” It’s spoken so _sincerely _she only stares when he zips back out.

The soup is a warm broth made by boiling elk bone. Cicero’s done well in his creation. The jester is surprisingly efficient with using local plants as ingredients and even Zaammeytiid admits to admiring the creative use of available resources. She only drinks the broth and eats the chunks of venision thrown in before putting the platter and soup bowl on a night table, but she appreciates it all the same. It takes a moment for her to realize she’s _grateful _for something a _joor _has done. The woman’s brows furrow and she finds herself staring at her injuries when Cicero finally returns with a set of older, slightly cracked shrouded robes. The leather is not enchanted but it holds up enough when she touches them. She pauses and looks at Cicero.

“Turn around.” The _dov _snaps.

The jester obeys but not without offering her a strange grin.

She undresses her top and fights the urge to hiss whenever her back injury starts to ooze from the action. The one in her gut is easier to deal with, the cut is not shallow and the arrow did not stick, but she feels the depths of her back wound. She growls when the pain begins to go from simple irritation to legitimate, searing-hot aches inside her back. The noises cause Cicero to turn around and for a moment she looks up and eyes him.

“Did silly Listener get hurt—” She feels amused at how quickly his face changes color.

It’s annoying in how it satisfies her growing need to assert her authority over the fool, as if the last trip to Dawnstar sanctuary is anything to go off of. The thought of the time a year prior makes her body stiffen and heat to crawl into her cheeks. She becomes profusely aware of his proximity to herself and turns to look away. The jester backs out the door he should have backed up in the first place and she hears him hum cheerfully from beyond it. She finishes getting the top piece over her head and into one arm but her back is too pained to get the other arm through. That, and she desperately needs to resolve the gaping hole in her back before it gets worse. She lies down on her stomach and keeps a blanket over her front before she gives in to the need to call his name.

“Cicero!” She surprises herself by how smoothly it slides off the tongue.

“Yes, Listener? How can Cicero assist silly Listener right now?” The jester doesn’t seem bothered by anything that’s gone on, any actions taken or words said. He acts as he always had: in a way that’s too perfectly Cicero to be anything else.

“I am not—_Nevermind!_ Gah! Can you—” How would Kara word it? She grits her teeth. “I need you to find a way to fix this damn back wound I have. It _hurts_!” And she means every syllable. Her voice reeks of frustration only a _dov _can possess.

An hour later, Cicero finishes stitching her back up, wrapping it in clean linens, and helping her with the top piece of the old shrouded armor set. He stays sitting next to her on the bed with a gleam in his eyes that matches the shiny gold bells atop his motley’s hat. The jester eyes her like she’s the only one in the room.

She is the only one in the room, she notes. And the only other one in the whole sanctuary.

“Have you been alone since we last spoke, _joor?_” Zaammeytiid glances at him from the corner of her eyes. He’s very close and they both sit on a bed and there is nothing strange about that except for the fact that of all the empty beds in the sanctuary, he chooses to sit on _hers_.

“Cicero has waited, as Listener asked! It is not easy to wait but it is over now!” The jester hums. “Happy words, happy words, happy, happy, happy words… Is Listener happy?”

“No.” The _dov _states offhandedly and looks to the side.

“What? What could cause the Listener to be upset? It must be smashed! Stabbed! Stab, stab, _stab!” _Cicero’s eyes grow dark and he peers intently at Zaammeytiid. “You have my blade. Two of them. Three, even! Oh, no, not three, I need the third. _Hmm.”_ The man hums thoughtfully.

“You’re already _you_,” Zaammeytiid pauses. “So it won’t alter or consume events of this world to—”

“The Keeper will always be here for lovely, silly Listener.” The jester leans against her. If it’s an expression of comfort—it’s a strange one given the elf blood stains on his skin and clothes. She enjoys it and doesn’t push him away.

“The Night Mother spoke to… me,” the _dov _woman explains the tale with a hesitancy that upsets her. She is a _dov_, a beast of the skies with a lust for devastation! Destruction! Death! Domination! She has no fear! Nothing to lose telling him the words! But her hesitancy lingers and the sensation is aggravating to consider. She decides to throw everything out into the open: she talks about the Thalmor, the capture, the escape, which Cicero finds especially clever, the return to Falkreath and reuniting with the family there, the _Kara problem_, and she ends her irritated story with Zaammeytiid’s loss of her horse, Horse, and the subsequent encounter with Thalmor and Cicero.

When she’s finished—the _dov _finds her hands clench tightly. She exhales and calms her raging emotions. She is a short fuse and the Thalmor squads are _dead_. Cicero notices the shift in her body language immediately; he sits upright and leans close. His eyes peer at hers and he offers a simple solution. “Listener, dear Cicero should find the other Thalmor and cut them open! Like dumplings—stuffed peppers! Oh, ho, ho, the sight of it would surely make _silly Listener_ smile…”

There’s no point to correcting him anymore. He’s a lost cause when it comes to remembering her name. She focuses on the rest of his words and contemplates them with furrowed brows.

“…It’s appealing. Another time.” The _dov _woman grimaces at having to reject the offer of _bloodshed_. She narrows her eyes. “The Night Mother told me to come here, to _you_, that you would know how to help Kara. I need to know. _Quickly._ There’s a time limit.”

“Is hulking sheepdog still alive?”

“Yes.”

_“Cicero has not forgiven the man!”_ The jester curses and crosses his arms. He’s almost childish, but it is all part of the motley that influences him. She recalls reading his journals. She knows his descent into his current state of mind. He is not just jester but assassin and both play and parry the same time. 

_Your blades hit home, _she thinks to the dead Thalmor. Two precise knife hits, like the blades were part of a throwing act for a court. _You filleted the elves like they were butter. Admirable._

“I need you to focus, _joor_, focus on what the Night Mother told me! What is it you know or do or say that helps Kara? I need to get her _in order _and get back to Falkreath,” the _dov _woman’s sentence is cut off by Cicero standing and pulling her from the bed. He grins at her startled exhale. She eyes him with diminishing patience. “Explain yourself. _Beyn, _what is this nonsense!?”

“We dance,” Cicero offers like it is the most _obvious _fact in the world. He hums and sways to unknown music.

Zaammeytiid stares. _“Lo _me, you _joor?_”

“No, no,” the jester speaks like he understands. He grins and takes one of her hands with his own. His other hand lands at her waist and he looks at her. “No, no! No, you put _your _hand here…” Cicero moves her other hand himself, setting it at his shoulder. His hand dips back to her waist and gently rests on her hip.

She is intrigued but unwilling to show it. She squints at him accusingly. “What are we doing?”

“We dance,” Cicero repeats and inhales deeply. “You follow my lead, Listener!”

And they begin. It’s clumsy and messy and every bit ungraceful in spite of Zaammeytiid _trying _to control her footwork. Cicero halts the duo five minutes after they begin. He sighs, mumbles under breath, and releases her.

She growls her displeasure. “Why is dancing not like _fighting? _My feet should obey! Bow and obey! They are pitiful! Abhorrent! _Unworthy!”_

“Perhaps Listener takes this too seriously. It is not a ballad of the Bardic college. It is good to relax! Relax, relax, relax,” the jester’s attempts to encourage her are not very encouraging. His hands reach for hers again. One of hers to his shoulder, one in his hand, and one of his on her hip. His grip grasps more of her this time. It provokes a thought that reminds her too much of a Daedric Prince’s taunts and teasing; she shoves him backward. He huffs. “The dance did not begin! The music has not started! We _must try again!” _

“Why!? What, in the name of _many Divines_, can be achieved by _dancing!?”_ The _dov _woman rips her hand back when Cicero reaches for it. Her nostrils flare and she hisses at him, “No! Not until you tell _why! _I am not a prissy human chick with a penchant for handsome jesters! I am _Zaammeytiid, _the slave of time, and I _deserve _an explanation to this nonsense!”

“If it was done right the first time you’d already _have _an explanation! Tch! Kindly, beautiful Listener danced with poor Cicero in Riften’s Ratway! In sewer and sludge! In grime and grimace!” The man scowls. _“It kept him away! It kept her safe! _Cicero would never let anything happen to the Listener! We danced the man away! Here, take my hand—"

“Fine.” Zaammeytiid concedes to the man if only to humor him and prove once and for all he is nonsense behind his cap.

Their hands and bodies meet once more. This time the pace is quick and hasty and arrogant, all a result of Zaammeytiid’s looming emotions. She’s no more improved than the first time. The _dov _woman’s feet trip over themselves and she stumbles and crashes on the floor. It sends Cicero sprawling and for a moment the two are nothing more than a mess of falling limbs and confusion. The _dov _woman groans, shakes her head, and grits her teeth.

“I _told_ you—” She begins but her words crawl to a stop.

She’s sitting on the floor, backed against one bedside. Her head hurts from hitting something on the way down and the pain annoys her but not enough to show. The jester has fallen too; Cicero looks up from where he landed on top of her and their eyes meet. His breathing fans her lips. He’s _too _close now and the proximity triggers a response Zaammeytiid does not expect. With a sharp cry she grapples him and the two are thrown into a sudden wrestling match. Cicero doesn’t expect it and the surprise lends her aid but the _dov _is not _really _trained in close quarters combat. She has only her thu’um to fall back on outside of weapons and quick reflexes; no destruction magic would fare well in the sanctuary, not that she fares well in the first place.

Cicero is a trained assassin with decades of experience under his jester hat. Zaammeytiid finds this out when the two are rolling over, with one trying to get control of the other, and she suddenly slams into the ground. Her back aches in pain and she _howls_ and writhes at the jester. He’s a nimble little _shit _and he’s already got knees on her elbows and pinning her arms still. One hand clamps over her mouth to muffle noise. His other hand slides out the ebony blade strapped to his leg and thrusts it against the flesh of her neck. The sharp blade isn’t pressed enough to sting and draw blood, but she sees the temptation flash in his eyes.

“One slip and your vocal chords sever, your thu’um dies,” the assassin warns beyond the jester motley. It’s the first real glimpse of the man Cicero once was to Zaammeytiid. _“I am trying to help, Listener.”_

It’s only the fact that he’s _won _in the meager game of roughhouse that leaves her with stunned silence. But it isn’t a game of “roughhouse.” No, it is far, far worse to Zaammeytiid and she feels frustration grow inside of her as she considers the physiological reasonings behind her decision to tackle him. It wasn’t to attack him, she knows, but to gauge his strength and determine if he can be her equal. He’s successful. 

“Cicero could not kill the Listener. Not yet, _ha!”_ And Cicero laughs and climbs off her. She sits up but doesn’t stand, even when he offers her a hand from where he stands. “But he needs an explanation.”

“That was… _dovah_ dancing?...” the _dov _woman mumbles. Her head feels dizzy. “Not—Not to kill you.”

_“Clearly, _it would fail! Listener would die! Dead! Dead as a doorknob, as Mother! But Listener is not dead,” the man plays with his ebony dagger and turns it over, and over, and over in his hands. “Listener acted _very _strange, perhaps she feels sickly? Sickly, silly Listener—”

“My back hurts.” The _dov _regrets not stealing Festus’ restoration tomes. She pulls herself to her feet and lets her shoulders drop. When she looks at the jester next, her heart beats too fast to make sense. She averts her gaze. “Forget that… Any of that happened. Cicero. Keeper. _Fool. Beyn _is all I feel for you.”

“Is there a reason why poor Cicero must suffer forgetfulness, _hmm?_ Must Cicero inquire into the thoughts of silly, sickly Listener?” Cicero eyes her.

_“Gol hah,” _she utters without further thought. The _dov _stares at him as he falls under control of her thu’um, compelled by innate magic to obey her. “Don’t— Augh, how do I—Forget we danced. The last dance. The _dovah _dance. Forget that one.” She shifts her gaze to the side. “Pretend the only thing we talked about was dancing to help Kara.”

When the thu’um wears off, the jester returns to an energetic and eager man. He invites her to dance and she accepts. The _dov _woman pretends it is an atrocious, terrible idea, that there’s _no _basis in it, and when they dance the second time around there is no clawing thought of _roughhousing _in her mind. But he stops at the end of it, not to scold or chide or compliment but to keep his grip the same. His eyes gleam of enthusiasm when he leans over to her ear. “What is a dovah dance?”

Her face turns cherry-red and she gawks._ “How—”_

“Is a _dovah dance _something to embarrass the _dov _Listener?”

“No—”

“Then _what_ is it?” And he grins cheekily. “Listener should share with dear, devoted Cicero! The Keeper keeps many secrets, _many!_ He, ha, ho…!”

And she hates that he picks that exact phrasing because it is precisely what’s needed to make the infuriating urge in the pit of her soul boil up and over into submitting for—

“It’s not actually a dance,” the _dov _woman grits her teeth. She is compelled by ancient customs of _dovah _to answer. "I—It’s—It’s a _dov _courtship rite. Used to determine worthy mates. We spar and engage in combat to determine someone of _equal strength._ _Happy, joor?” _If he comments on her blush she might lose any self-restraint and start blasting the province with _yol _flames._ “_Don’t get any ideas! I am but a _dov _wrapped in human flesh for a time—It does _not_ apply here!”

He pauses for Divines-knows-what. His eyes light up and she’s not sure how to feel about it. He begins the dance without another word. She doesn’t know how many times they’ve tried it before but whatever attempt it is now seems to do the trick. As the atmosphere relaxes and tension dissolves, her steps come easier. She finds the jester’s grip on her to be a guiding touch for body. Every second with him becomes electrifying as she avoids his eyes and works to keep in step to the tune only he hears.

He spins her and pulls her to him, her back to his chest, and his arms come to wrap around her. His warm breath on the crook of her neck makes her shudder involuntarily. The blasted, damned, nasty sensations of mortal arousal drive her up a wall! She doesn’t want him to stop—and if anything the bloody man isn’t doing enough to satiate her to begin with—but a part of her pride is so vehement against the thought of _dear, beloved Cicero _possessing potential to be a mate that… she lets her eyes shut. An exhale escapes her lips; the jester’s lips brush her skin and leave a faint kiss.

Her face lights up in heat. She grits her teeth and scrunches her eyes shut. “Is this part of the dance, _joor_?”

“Yes,” the man says as plain-as-day.

She hates that she doesn’t know whether he’s lying. She despises that someone of her esteem is brought crashing to the ground with such simple actions. But every part of _him _that presses unto her leaves her with a terrible need that she as a _dov _cannot fully understand. She has been the _dov _of Dragonborns throughout time and many resets, yet in the past she has never existed in such an individual manner. Kara’s time as Dragonborn in this cycle of repeats is a first for her to experience. Her mind connects with every nerve of the body, every organ, and all the chemicals that fuel her bizarre _joor _thoughts.

She struggles to keep herself quiet when Cicero’s teeth nibble on her skin. He’s far gentler than Ondolemar—the high elf’s actions were out of a lust for control over her. Cicero is slow and considerate; his tiny mortal incisors will not puncture without great force applied to the bite and he’s very careful to take time feeling out her skin. It’s terrifyingly intimate and Zeemmaytiid’s body tenses as she swallows every thought and feeling that yearns to express itself.

“Did you do this with Kara?” She whispers softly.

Cicero draws back to peer at her from the side. “A Keeper does not keep _and _tell.”

“So you have.” She makes to wriggle out of his grasp but he spins her again and takes the two back into their initial starting position. Her chest presses against his and she knows for a fact they were not _that _close earlier. She growls. “Focus on Kara! _Beyn! _I did not come out to Falkreath to—” and she puts that train of thought to a _stop _before her temper gets the better of her and she burns the sanctuary to the ground. She will not give the jester the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence affects her.

The bloody jester must have an idea because he leans forward and steals a kiss from her. But it’s not short. It’s long and needy and the _dov _feels her—mortal, fragile, squishy flesh—body press into him, hands exploring freely and hips grinding into one another. She could stop the moment if she wanted, _fus _the man to the other side of the sanctuary. But Kara is right—He’s good with his lips and he has soft hair and those are qualities that give him worth at that moment. Her hands tangle in his hair and the _dov _woman hisses at how appealing it is. He smiles against her and steals her air another long, painfully clothed moment.

“—You are a foolish, foolish _joor_—” And she’s being kissed again, but the touch of dragon speech gives her some resolve. She finds it in her to break apart to _breathe_ and the breaths come in short, shallow pants. “Did you—With her—Too?”

“A Keeper does not keep _and _tell,” the Keeper whispers softly. “But Cicero does not mind keeping this silly Listener.”

_“Gol hah,” _she whispers again, unable to hold back both the frustration of having a hormonally-charged mortal form, but also the annoyance at how easily she is distracted. She does not have time for games! And that is all it is, a game with touch and taste and smells that drive her wild! It is not a reflection of her, of the _dov_, but simply a result of close proximity to another humanoid when she’s forced to take on such a form.

_But it is, _She hates acknowledging it in her head. _But it is me... _

Zaammeytiid catches her breath before she gives the Keeper an order. “Show me the dance that will help Kara. The one that took place in Riften’s Ratway.”

And he does. It’s more or less what he’s been doing the entire time, but there’s less interruptions with him compelled by her Bend Will shout. She lets him waltz her around the room while she shuts her eyes and focuses not on herself but on the other somewhere deep, deep inside their conjoined soul. Zaammeytiid’s consciousness reaches for the Dragonborn’s mind and permeates the crumbling, cracked shell around Kara’s consciousness.

She feels all control of her body fade away as their eyes shoot open and reveal not the rooms of Dawnstar sanctuary, or even the annoying jester, but that of a washed-out apartment covered in decay and putrid aromas. The sight is recognizeable in part: illusions of people in uniforms wandering the grounds, sprays of black ink on carpeted floors… It clicks in Zaammeytiid’s mind that the sight they are in now is that of a memory of a world they do not understand. It is the décor, the technology, and the distinct humans that spell it out for them: they stand looking at a memory of _earth, _the world of sports of which Kara originates if Sanguine is any source to go off of. They are also lacking the mortal body of Kara the Dragonborn. In Kara’s mental landscape, Zaammeytiid’s form is a grand white being with golden-tipped scales and a righteous mane that cascades down their back. They are separate from the identify of the Dragonborn and thus genderless once more.

Their beak-like jaws tense at the sight of Kara. Their massive draconic body somehow fits into the tiny apartment despite the dimensions not being appropriate for their form. It is the logic of a dream and a memory: physics is without a case where the mind is concerned. They stride up to Kara, to where the woman sits facing away from them. Kara’s back is drenched in sanguine ink and mottled, messy pink paste.

“Kara?” Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow and they grab the woman by the shoulder. They pull her to face them and then immediately release Kara’s form. The woman is not alive, or she should not be alive. Zaammeytiid’s glowing eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a decayed corpse with a beyond-fatal head wound aspray in brain matter, cerebral fluid, and blood. Kara’s face is unrecognizeable. Bruises dot her neck. The top half of her form is too damaged to see eyes but Zaammeytiid feels the woman stare at her nonetheless.

“There is no Kara.” The corpse gurgles without emotion. “She is not she. She is simply… _she._ And she is a tool of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, honored to bring glory and fame to the high elves of Summerset Isles. She is owned by Head Justicar Ondolemar and Interrogator Rulindil of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. She is… she.”

And the corpse turns away and resumes sitting. In front of ‘She,’ Zaammeytiid realizes, is a strange square-shaped metal device. It attaches to a tray of scripted buttons. It has a blue screen and the glow from it fuels nothing but _fear _in the _dov. _They suck in a deep breath and reach for ‘She’ again. One way or another, they will take her home.


	30. sloan, joor, mortal, corpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zaammeytiid confronts 'She' in the depths of kara's consciousness. in the process of convincing kara's consciousness to mend, she learns the joor's earth name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for brainwashing stuff yea  
and theres some small description of domestic violence  
proceed with caution  
love u all

She is simply she: property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, signer of the White-Gold Concordat that ended the Great War between the Empire and the Dominion. She is their tool, their prose, and their muse; she serves them faithfully as a weapon of war capable of burning down cities and molding men to serve her will. She is owned by Head Justicar Ondolemar in conjuction with Head Interrogator Rulindil, both valiant and noble high elves whose prestige she will never obtain yet she dreams of. She is not _mer_, she knows that and understands her place as merely _serving _the Dominion versus being a rightful part of it.

It is just, for no _mer _should ever seek to be part of the Dominion. They are not a worthy race. Elves have amassed the right to be called _superior_ and She agrees with them. For a time, her life is sweet and peaceful. She is their tool, their prose, and their muse; everything is _correct _with the world and she does not speak unless spoken to_—_but the arrival of the _dov _changes that. The beast in her mind! The beast who roars and snarls! She thinks it is right and good and calm, but the _beast _is a tricky one and the _dov _steals her away from the golden race she calls masters.

She is not to go quietly into the night with the _dov_. She will not accept the _dov_’s command of sleep further. She is simply she; she remains property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion no matter who tears her from their dominating grasp. The _dov _can travel, can seek out old faces known no longer, and the _dov _can try and try to find methods to the madness, but it is naught! She is _not _the one they call Kara! She is not! She is she! _She is she! _

But the beast dances. The fool leads. It is the call of an emotion she is not privy to but responds nonetheless. The safe, safe dance leads her to the beast. It is all part of a trap! A trap to ensnare her with the beast once more! _But the dance… is safe. It protects. It protects..._

She is she, and she decides the dance protects her. _It does, it does, it does! Dance! Dance! Dance! _And she is simply she, but she knows how to dance. _Dance…_

The beast finds her in a washed-out memory. It is a perspective the beast should not experience but forces beyond either the two’s powers are at work. She knows because she _is she _and _She _is not the fool who dances on the outside.

“Kara?” The _beast _is a bird-lizard of white and gold and sweet, sweet _mer _colors. But it is no _mer_! It is nothing! It is long manes and longer whiskers, a beak and no teeth, and a body so slender and long it must be a snake. The beast is a snake! A _winged_ serpent! It will trick her and lie and flail and she will resist because _she is the property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion_.

The beast grabs her in its talons and forces her to turn. She knows how she looks! She is a display of soft pink frills, a fluster of crimson and sanguine stains, and the epitome of perfection as the _chosen_ tool of the Dominion. The beast is a fool and they know. She sees it in the wide, startled expression of the ethereal _snake_.

“There is no Kara,” her voice is a gurgle of sounds without life behind the words. “She is not she. She is simply _she_. And she is a tool of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, honored to bring glory and fame to the high elves of Summerset Isles. She is owned by Head Justicar Ondolemar and Interrogator Rulindil of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. She is she.” She recites the words clearly. Her masters would be proud! She shakes off the snake’s grip and turns away. She sees not but she _knows _the world around her and she sees in her not-sight the vision of a blue screen and dead machinery.

She is simply she.

She is not Zaammeytiid.

Zaammeytiid is not Kara.

Zaammeytiid is _slowly losing their patience._

The _dov _stares as She turns away from the dragon spirit. The corpse figure returns to focusing on the glowing blue _thing_. The world around the two is a perfect picture of a foggy, washed out apartment, much like the ones they witness at the small square windows of the complex when they look that way. Their body doesn’t move. Their spirit sits and waits. When their patience snaps, they reach for She again and hiss. _“Gol hah.”_

The corpse doesn’t acknowledge them.

Their tail twitches dangerously. They make the corpse face them and they stare the gory, broken face of a once-human down. “I need you to come with me.”

“She will not go.” The corpse bubbles with decay and gas. “She is a tool of the third Aldmeri Dominion…”

“Shut up!” Zaammeytiid _hisses_. “You know we have to go back! You have to go and be the _Dragonborn, _the _dovahkiin_, and _you _have to defeat the World Eater in Sovngarde! It is the strings of fate, Kara! Our destinies intertwined! You are _disgraceful_ and _disgusting _for daring to forget your duties!”

“She is not Kara.”

_I will burn you were you stand! The undeath be the last of you, Kara, if you do not go! _The _dov_’s grip on the corpse’s arms tightens. The soft flesh gives way like melting butter to the ethereal spirit’s talons. “I had to _ride out to Dawnstar, _find that _abhorrent jester_, and let him _save me from Thalmor _to have any kind of means of reaching you at all! Do not put my efforts to shame, _joor_, we are not the same and I do not take these actions without cause! Respect that!”

And the corpse gurgles incoherently but does not respond.

_“Iiz slen nus,” _the spirit hisses and breathes out a slippery, winding string of frost. It enshrouds the corpse and wraps it tight in its grip as the _Ice Form _shout descends over She. It hardens and penetrates the weak layers of dead flesh and tissue. The smell is heinous but Zaammeytiid refuses to budge or look away. As snow dust settles and snowflakes stop their dancing, the _dov _growls. _“We_ are going to Skyrim, Kara. The time for the emperor’s assassin is nigh. Sanguine and I will protect you until—”

But the body is not there. The _Ice Form _shatters into a million beautiful, glassy pieces. There is no body or blood or being. She is simply not present where the thu’um lands. Zaammeytiid roars with growing aggravation. They whip their body around to look for the corpse but She is not to be seen. The mental landscape around them wilts and crumbles into dust; the world of Kara’s consciousness begins to reshape and Zaammeytiid finds themself not in the apartment complex but in a much, much more colorful memory. Soft pastel hues fill in negative space while shapes and figures form. The abstract geometry gives the spirit a headache but in spite of eye strain they continue to look and they see a teenage _joor _sitting at a bench.

Green grasses cover acres of land around them; the memory makes it seem like it goes on forever. A sky of blue—the likes of which Zaammeytiid has never seen before—remains clear and vibrant overhead. A single star, a brilliant, searing sun hangs as the sole point of light for the world of this memory. The dragon spirit breathes in clean air and hears soft chatter of humans nearby. When they look around, they see not only the teenage _joor _but dozens of other _joorre_, young ones, happily and carelessly playing as if bears and cats and giants did not roam the lands. An insect flies nearby and the dragon spirit swats a claw through it; it buzzes off and the spirit becomes aware once more that this is a _memory_. They see a chunky gray-and-black feathered avian hounding a tiny _joor _who holds bread slices in their hands. They watch rabbits bolt from screaming humans. They witness strange rectangular devices wielded by the _joorre_, ones with glowing surfaces that the _joorre _touch and even speak into.

The teenage _joor _is the one they return their focus on. She is a young _joor_, an adolescent no older than fifteen or sixteen in the human lifespan. Her hair is long and pulled back into an elaborate hairstyle. Freckles line her cheeks. She wears a uniform that doesn’t have a single enchantment on it but instead a logo with a word of unknown language sprawled across the front. She is focused on a book.

“Sloan!” The _joor _looks up at the voice. It comes from a man whose face is a mess of flashing colors and jagged edges of musculature. “You plannin’ to stay there all lunch?”

Zaammeytiid’s eyes narrow. They note the fence between the green grass and the stranger.

“Go away, Seamus. I’m not interested in ditching.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sloan! Like I’d want you to do _that_,” the man snorts. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble! I just think you need a break. You’re, uh… how’d it go? You’re like an angel, you fell from heaven.”

“My brother tell you to try that line?” The teenage _joor _snaps. “He’s a shitty wingman! Fuck off. I’m not interested, fucking_ creep_.”

“Tell yourself that,” the look on the stranger’s face causes Zaammeytiid to subconsciously step between the two, even if a fence already exists in the memory. Neither acknowledge the glowing white dragon that greatly looms over both _joorre. _“One of these days, Sloan. You and me—”

The memory crumbles.

Zaammeytiid doesn’t understand the next one. It’s a scene of warped proportions and jittering shadows. The stress of the memory lingers in structures bending and contorting into physics-defying shapes. The only figures that make any sense are those of a couple of teenage _joorre _who huddle around the same teenager the dragon remembers from the previous scene. It’s an odd sight. The _joorre _don’t have faces that make full sense and details become fuzzy the longer Zaammeytiid tries to make sense of them, so they don’t. They hear a rumble of thunder and when they look up rain begins to fall through their ethereal body.

An older _joorre _steps outside a disgustingly well-lit shop. She’s a tall lady that doesn’t look related to any of the humans, but she has a bag made of strange semi-transparent material in one hand and a solemn frown on her lips. The tall _joorre _walks out under the crying sky and approaches the group of _joorre _after looking around the area_. _

“Look, I’m not gonna press why you need me to buy _these—_But make sure you want to do something before you do it. Okay?” The tall _joorre _says. She hands the bag to one of the teenagers. “Even if the fucking person cries and begs.”

A couple of the teenagers giggle and whisper to one another.

The evening whisks away and with it the scene vanishes. For an unknown amount of time Zaammeytiid is stuck in _nothing_. They begin to wander the nothing; it is not darkness but an absence of all things. Even the Void of Sithis and the Night Mother offers comfort in its grasp; for the dragon spirit there is only their thoughts to keep them anchored to Kara’s consciousness. They mentally count numbers and minutes and _hours _to try and have some awareness mindful of their time limit. _Two days to get here. Five days left to bring Kara back and avert the Dark Brotherhood’s collapse and massacre at the hands of the Penitus Oculatus forces of the emperor. Kara, hurry… _

At one point a thought crosses their mind. With no more scenes triggered, they take their own steps to try and force something to happen with a whisper of, _“Kaan drem ov.”_

It is a shout they don’t use often. The words translate to ‘Kyne-Peace-Trust’ and offer a calming effect, the exact opposite of Zaammeytiid’s destructive nature. _Dovah _exist to rule and invoke fear and respect, not trust or peace! _But it calls for it. This delicate problem. I must bring the Listener home, I must help Kara… _

If it helps, they don’t notice.

They try a different method. The ethereal being, in the vastness of _nothing_ of Kara’s mind, lets out a sudden _roar. _

_“She! _Face me, you _joor, _coward!” The _dov _snaps their jaws and calls the name. “Property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion! Tools of the high elves and all the _meyye _who dare follow their banner! Show yourself, _She! _Show me what the weapon of the Third Aldmeri Dominion is like!”

The provocations do not induce the corpse into unveiling herself. Zaammeytiid sneers and snarls at the nothing. They turn tail and stalk the area as if they understand the mind, its emptiness, and the corpse herself. If taunts and challenges do not work, they turn to violence and intimidation! The dragon leaps into the nothing and flaps their wings; they howl and roar out a shout of, _“Yol toor shul!” _

The blast of fire they shoot at nothing is a beautiful sight to behold. Every flame is its own and born of the dragon’s innate magical being. The fire sears and glows red-hot before the power of the shout fades and it starts to die. None of the _nothing_ burns. Zaammeytiid follows up the shout with a gale of freezing cold, _“Fo krah diin!” _

Again, the element created is a stunning masterpiece of innate magical properties. The icy blast is a flurry of picture-perfect snowflakes and ice crystals. They fall slowly through the air before dissipating and vanishing from sight. The nothing remains as the dragon spirit circles around overhead.

They act as if they land: their legs come up and they envision plopping unto the nothing and feeling it solid beneath their feet. To Zaammeytiid’s surprise, it works. They snap their head back and forth to seek out a hint of anything in the nothing, a mere _sliver _of the corpse, of She, of _Kara_, but the nothing lingers. It is truly devoid of all but Zaammeytiid, and the dragon spirit knows it is only because of Cicero’s dancing that they got into the nothing of Kara’s consciousness in the first place. They howl and rage and rant long curses in the _dovah _tongue until their throat is parched and their legs and claws shake in rage.

_Why can’t I reach you, dovahkiin? Are you truly that far gone? _But even as the questions float through Zaammeytiid’s mind, they know the answer. Kara can not be gone. They know she is the Sloan of the memories, the teenage _joor_, and they recognize those memories as that of her in _her _world. _Earth. The world of sports. It is a bright and beautiful, idyllic place. Free of the hardships of Skyrim, Tamriel, Nirn. Free of… the difficulties. The joorre looked happy there. Even Kara-Sloan. She let me see those memories. How could those sights exist if Kara’s mind is truly dead? _

The mere thought of the _dovahkiin _being _gone _makes Zaammeytiid screech in agony. They shake their head and gnash their jaws, cursing and thrashing and clawing at the nothing once more in their anger.

“How dare you, _joor!_ You have shown me a world I will never reach! A sky I will never fly! Blood that will never be shed,” the ethereal figure throws themself into attacking the nothing. They gouge and pierce and slam and shred through the nothing as if it were truly something. They howl and curse and _shout _elemental breaths that all dissolve into the nothing without any sign of change. Zaammeytiid rears on their hind legs and bellows the challenge to She again and again and again. Then they fall to the nothing, tired. They hiss against it. “How dare a _dovahkiin _show the _zaam mey tiid _a glimpse of freedom, a taste better than the expanse of _Aetherius!_ How dare a mortal offer such intimate knowledge to a _dov_. You _disgust _me, truly, for I am almost forced to respect you, Kara-She. I am forced to bow my head at your _Earth_. It is… beyond a _dov_’s comprehension.”

Zaammeytiid grits their teeth and bows.

And a hand falls to the tip of their beak. The smell of rotten flesh fills their nostrils and their eyes snap up to the mangled face of She.

“Do not fool yourself. These are not happy memories.” She intones without pause. “Earth can never be as glorious to the Third Aldmeri Dominion. I recognize that now. Head Justicar Ondolemar and Interrogator Rulindil have opened my eyes to the truth. There is no reason to mourn a world She will not return to.”

The _dov_’s brows furrow. “So you _mock _my suffering? You seek my _bah?” _

“She exists to serve the Third Aldmeri Dominion, to bring fame and glory to the—”

“Enough with the Aldmeri! Enough with you saying you’re a _tool, beyn! Beyn!” _The _dov _shoves the corpse’s hand off and roars in She’s face. The dragon spirit lowers their head to leer at the corpse. _“Dovahkiin neh vir, _you will not _krii _in the name of gold-skinned _meyye! _Let them fall to your feet instead! Rot and suffer! Beg for mercy! You are the true half of this kinship! Of us, of _dov _and _dovahkiin! _Snap back to your senses, Kara! I command it!”

“Kara is gone,” the corpse cuts off her previous dialogue and moves to turn away. “She is simply she.”

The _dov _stares at the corpse’s back. Their eyes remain wide and open, watchful, as the emotion of _frustration _sinks to their stomach. A heaviness pulls at their ethereal chest. They blink slowly at the possibility. _Is She right? Were the Thalmor too much for one battered soul to survive? Your mind was a field of razors. Pieces of glass to sever the souls who stepped wrong. Your name was a force and your title Listener. Is that your ballad’s end? A joor that falls to elven brainwashing? A mortal incapable of lifting a sword to their name? _

The violence and threats of war, of death, of _devastation_ do not work. They recall the words of the Kyne’s Peace shout. _Kyne-Peace-Trust._

“Trust me.” Zaammeytiid breathes. “She, _please_—” and it comes out as a hiss because the spirit cannot fathom willingly begging. “—Trust me—Your _dov_—”

“The _beast _has shown it will lie and sneak and steal She from the Third Aldmeri Dominion. She is—”

“Property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, _I know,_” and for a second another hint of irritation leeches into their voice. They exhale and fight the urge to growl, to snap, to snarl. “But you seek safety. That is how we met today. You felt _safe_. You _trust _the dance—” Their mind flashes to Cicero, to the strange routine the Night Mother led them to. “—And the _dance _comforts you—It let me in—It was something you trust—”

“It was a mistake. The dance. She sees that now.” The corpse sways idly.

_“Shut up,_ it was not! It kept _him _away! In the Ratway! In Riften! It protected you from the _guards _when you were injured and stuck in a panic attack,” the _dov _spits out each word in a growing, agonizing tone of desperation. “You trust the dance! The dance brought me here! _To you—_Trust me as you trust it!”

_“I will not trust a snake,” _the corpse’s voice garbles and the form tenses. The body of the corpse is no longer that of Kara, the woman, but of Sloan, the teenage _joor, _whose intact face is full of tears and pain and anger. “You who lies and lies and uses force to assert your will! You who _shouts the Brotherhood _into submission! You are _nothing, _Zaammeytiid! Nothing to She! Nothing to the Third Aldmeri Dominion! I sought you out after you were taken from me! I would have died to keep you safe! Offered myself to free your soul! _I know the pain of a caged animal!_”

Memories begin to flicker around the two. Zaammeytiid shouts in surprise and whirls around to look at scenes unfolding and replaying in a flurry of colors and lights. They see a wedding of black dresses and white tuxedos, they witness the altercation that leaves the first bruises on the _joor_’s neck, and the magical, flying machine that takes the _joor _far, far from her home. They feel the anger of a missing father, the wrath of a spouse at a friend’s call, and the mourning of what will never be once the obituary flashes into vision. They see the mother wilt away, the husband reek of alcohol, and the woman they call _dovahkiin _hide in the bathroom after another _joor _stands screaming at her for what feels like hours.

It is all a glimpse of Earth, of the world beyond their own. It is the only time a _dovahkiin _has ever offered the sight. Earth is not nearly the pristine, beautiful utopia Zaammeytiid first thinks of it. It is full of its own dark perils, and though the _dov _does not fully understand them, they recognize them all the same as more and more turmoil and chaos and _madness _comes flying through in brief memories and foggy recollections.

The _joor _in front of her looks like Kara, is Kara, but the mind remains dominated by She. Zaammeytiid meets She’s eyes. “You died on Earth.”

“I died and _this _is the life I was given.” She snarls. “I am the property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion now.”

“It doesn’t have to stay like that, _beyn! _Listen to me—”

“I am through listening to you, _dov_. She is through.” The body’s eyes darken. “You are _zaam mey tiid_, slave of time. You will return to the cycle. I will lead my masters to fame and glory. All of Tamriel will bend the knee to the Aldmeri Dominion.”

“I promised not to give up on you, _Listener, _and I intend to keep my word.” Zaammeytiid hisses and grabs the corpse. It is not the soft, rotting flesh as before, but they do not have the claws and talons of their true _dov _nature. They will their flesh to return to inferior _joor, _to wrap itself in the embrace of disgustingly squishy, bloody human skin. By the time Zaammeytiid’s hands grab unto Sloan’s shoulder they are not a genderless spirit but a woman by choice, a human: weak and fragile.

She gazes at them. “You cannot bring Kara back.”

“Then let me bring back _Sloan,_” Zaammeytiid hisses and pulls the woman into a dance. It’s perhaps the most asinine idea she has ever concocted, or Cicero is truly a man of intellect beneath the jester cap, but the _dance _is truly the only thing that has succeeded all day. The dance is what Sloan and Kara and She trusts. The dance is capable of spurring comfort Zaammeytiid needs Sloan to experience.

She pulls the other woman into a dance. One hand on shoulder, the other in Sloan’s hand, fingers interlaced. She feels Sloan instinctively put her free hand on her hip and the steps begin to unheard music and imaginary notes. Zaammeytiid keeps her steps light and airy as the duo circles across nothing, spins, and dips one another. It is a sight she would normally revolt at, and a thought she cannot imagine working, but she is desperate. She is incapable of resolving things on her own without devastating the landscape. She is _violence _incarnate and not a being capable of the sympathy and safety that Kara and Sloan seek.

But she is Zaammeytiid, and Zaammeytiid wishes for change. She prays for it, to an unholy matron she hears but does not follow, to a father of dread she respects but does not acknowledge, and never once to the eater of worlds who dominates her devotion and violent tendencies.

The Night Mother does not respond in words, but the unholy matron gifts courage and strength to Zaammeytiid; she gifts the dragon the ability to bend and mold her innate nature of devastation and domination. She becomes capable of altering the strings of her fate.

“I’m sorry,” Zaammeytiid pulls Sloan through the final spin. But where Cicero had caught her with her back to his chest, Zaammeytiid instead pulls Sloan into a hug. The _dov _wraps her arms around the woman and runs a hand through her hair. She whispers the words again, too painfully sincere for her _dov _nature. “I’m sorry I did not save you sooner, Sloan. Or keep you safe from the Thalmor’s gaze. Or parry away the _dovah _of the skies when one dropped you to a supposed death. I have wronged you in my actions, cursed you in my words. I am not a being capable of seeking life beyond the shed of blood and acquisition of power, but I bend my knee to you in apology, _dovahkiin_.”

She lets the woman, the _joor_, the Dragonborn, human go, and Zaammeytiid drops to her knees and bows until her forehead touches the ground. She bites back the urge to snap, or curse, or snarl in defiance, and she stills.

“You willingly bend your knee for a _joor?_” Sloan breathes. “Why? She isn’t—She is simply—”

“I need her to know—If she comes back—If _you_ come back—You’ll survive again—And things _will_ be different.” Zaammeytiid grits her teeth and clenches her eyes shut. “I swear it on my life—I will serve you as _dov_, as your _dov_, for you are _dovahkiin _and our destiny is entwined.”

“You would submit to another, obey another—willingly?”

“I seek it. To bring you back from the nothing the Thalmor forced you into! To aid you! To protect you! To support you! And if _joor_ so wishes—I will take the name _Zaammeyjoor,_ a servant of the living flesh of Dragonborn, of _dovahkiin_. I will do so willingly!”

“I don’t want that,” the woman utters and clenches her fists. She’s a mess of clothes that aren’t matching, of an old cracked leather top and shrouded, enchanted leggings. She’s barefoot and gloveless and her hair frays on end in the same manner Zaammeytiid's does. “I want this world to return to normal. I want the threat of Alduin to cease over these lands. I want my Brotherhood to live. I want—I want to free you. I promised you your freedom. I intend to give it to you, my _dov_.”

When Zaammeytiid snaps her head up she sees a gleam in the human’s eyes. Sloan—Kara?—watches her. _“Dovahkiin?” _

“Don’t call me Sloan again, she is _dead_ and I have chosen this life.” the _joor _states and offers her a hand. Kara pulls Zaammeytiid to her feet. “Do not bend your knee to _joorre_, _beyn_. You are a _dovah, _pledged to the sky. One day I will not be able to follow your steps. But until then—”

And Zaammeytiid comes to in the same routine she danced to before, first with Cicero and then Sloan and now Cicero again. And she swallows and stops and the jester halts the dance with a pause and astute gaze. The _dov_’s eyes begin to water. It’s an unfamiliar, _mortal_ feeling she knows of yet to experience firsthand is overwhelming. Cicero catches her and holds her before she crumbles; her hot tears leave ugly streaks down her face. She lets herself cling to him, and she ignores her own call to seek out bloodshed for comfort, because the _dov _knows she changes and things will never be what they are. Zaammeytiid knows the Night Mother blesses her with freedom and control her kin do not and may never know the likes of.

_We are bound, you and I. Two caged animals. _Kara’s words ring in her mind. _But that does not mean we cannot coexist. One does not have to dominate the other when we both wish for freedom. _

“Kara?” The jester asks softly, in concern.

The _dov _woman shakes her head. She snorts and huffs and wipes away her eyes but does not move from the man’s grasp. “No. But she—The _dovahkiin_ is okay. She’s home. She's back. The _joor _lives again.”


	31. i don't want them to hurt you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after a dawnstar expedition, zaammeytiid and kara return to falkreath's sanctuary. kara is given one hell of a welcoming by the dark brotherhood.

Before she leaves the sanctuary the next morning, Zaammeytiid finds Cicero in the Dawnstar sanctuary’s dining hall. The _dov _woman strides up and observes him slowly turning a spit laden with rabbit. It smells good, even if a strange breakfast. The jester hums to himself and sways to his own music while he continues to work the spit. When it is done, the jester puts out the fire beneath and removes the hare from its spit. He divides the flesh and sets it on two plates. Zaammeytiid sits at a stone table by this time; Cicero takes the spot exactly next to hers and scoots over until the side of his hips press against hers.

It’s more distracting than she wants to think about. The bloody jester’s eyes are merry as he gives her a cheeky grin and nod. “Listener, you have not yet eaten today!”

“I just woke up.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. For all the hype of Kara being back, Zaammeytiid feels slightly annoyed that the Dragonborn has yet to take center stage. _Doesn’t Kara like Cicero? She should be dying to see him. _

“But you must eat. Your body is lovely and will stay that way if you eat.” He nudges a plate of rabbit at her and she catches a whiff in her nostrils. Her mouth begins to drool and her stomach growls at inopportune time. “Ha, ha! Sweet Cicero knows silly Listener well!”

Zaammeytiid doesn’t feel like retorting. She keeps her comments to herself and finds her hands drawn to the rabbit. The woman picks it up with her fingers and eager begins to chow into it. The hare is cooked wonderfully and though she doesn’t recognize the spices on it, she doesn’t deny how delicious it is. Her _dov _need for flesh is temporarily satiated. A glow falls to her cheeks and she realizes with a startled look that she must otherwise come off as absurdly happy. She glances at Cicero from the side and finds his eyes linger on hers. “What?”

“Do you like it?” Cicero leans close.

She swallows the current bite of rabbit and nods. “It is… a meal I would have again.”

“Anything else?” It dawns on her Cicero must be _looking _for something, because his eyes watch her every movement and his smile is a little too full of mischief to not have ulterior motive.

Her brows furrow and she looks away. “Um… _Thanks?_ _I guess?_ I got to leave here soon. It’s two days to Falkreath thanks to the damn Thalmor. There’s an execution scheduled four days out and if I miss it a lot of the Dark Brotherhood are going to die.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She stands after finishing her rabbit but finds Cicero follows. She attempts to walk around him but he is a _nimble little shit_. He’s always in front of her when she tries to get around him. Her eyes narrow and she begins to hiss when he steps in front of her for the fourth time. “Jester…”

“We did not finish our dance.” And the man holds out a hand.

“Are you serious?” Zaammeytiid grits her teeth. Her cheeks flush in embarrassment. “You want me to dance—”

Cicero has already pulled her into a dance. She gasps in surprise as her chest becomes flush with his own and one of her hands interlace with his. Her heart begins to thud rapidly in her ears. It’s an obnoxious, invigorating sound. Her eyes rise to meet his and she finds the expression in them positively ludicrous; she doesn’t know how he thinks with all the cheeky smiles, dancing, and jokes. All she recalls is that he’s got very soft hair, that she can’t read the man worth a dead body, and that he is a surprisingly good kisser. It’s irritating that she acknowledges how tempting his lips are at that moment.

And they’re dancing, waltzing a not-waltz across a stone floor with nothing in their way. Cicero hums and occasionally remarks on the state of the sanctuary around them as they dance. Zaammeytiid begins to look at him accusingly as it goes on, because every time he spins her or dips her or pulls her to him another jolt of electricity—it _has_ to be a Sparks spell, it must—bites at her side. By the time the two finish even the _dov _woman feels out of breath and restless; she exhales and inhales deeply and lets herself sit on the nearest chair. “—Okay. _Dance_ done. I need to find a horse. Or a _dov_. Preferably the latter.” She grimaces, having not seen or heard a dragon since entering the Pale.

“Will the silly Listener come back?” The jester hums thoughtfully. He’s already on his feet, dancing again, but this time it is a shuffling act the likes of which Zaammeytiid could not even dream possible. “Lovely, lovely Zaammeytiid—Will the kindly, sweet Listener take your place?”

She snaps her head up at the sound of her name. For a second her eyes narrow and anger fans her mind. But she does not let it pass; she merely clenches her fist and hisses until it dissipates and fades into smoke in her head. The _dov _stands and crosses her arms. “Kara should, yes. Unless she’s being a _little shit _but—No, no, she’ll be here. I shouldn’t call my _dovahkiin _such things. _Beyn, dov._” The woman looks to the side.

“What does it mean? _Beyn?_ You say it a lot. Cicero would love to learn lovely Listener’s linguistical lips—” the jester draws close and pulls her to him. It’s not unexpected this time; she’s begun to anticipate spontaneous dances anytime he’s around. This time, however, Cicero does not begin the routine but simply rests his hands at her waist. She peers at him. “You say many things in dragon tongue. Cicero knows little of them, but he is willing to learn for the Listener.”

_“Beyn,_” she mutters instinctively at his consideration. He’s too much for her at times, too much for a _dov _that prays to a goddess not her own. “It means ‘scorn.’ But the speech of _dovah _is flexible, _joor_, words have multiple meanings and tenses. Much like the common tongue of you landwalkers.”

“The silly Listener walks the land right now! Who is the silly one now? Not poor Cicero, no, no, no,” The jester points out with a hum. He rests his forehead against hers. “But it is _very_ convenient for poor Cicero, who lacks wings and likes to stab things.”

“You are very good at the latter,” Zaammeytiid acknowledges under her breath. She refuses to address the growing heat across her face. “I do not understand you, _joor_. You are a conundrum of moving parts and motley.”

_“’Joor,’_ what is that? The word, the word—”

“Mortal. It means mortal. _Dovah _are not _joorre_, or _mortals, _for our souls are absorbed by the Dragonborn. Otherwise—We rise again, we are capable of returning,” the _dov _woman frowns and peers at the jester. He looks oddly contemplative. She raises both brows. “What is it? You being quiet spells ill for the world.”

Cicero squints at her. She can’t tell if it is his jester or assassin tendencies that speak when he asks, “If silly Listener stood on death’s door—Could Cicero _stab stab stab _her to make her rise?”

She snorts. It’s such a strange question that of _course _can only come from him. The _dov _woman shakes her head. “No, _joor_, I am not like the rest of _dovah_. My kin remain in the skies and, as you have _kindly _pointed out,” she makes the sarcasm evident. “—I am of the ground. I am _Zaammeytiid_, _dov _of the Dragonborn, the _dovahkiin_. Both this one and all the others who have come before her.”

“Why is that?” They’re swaying now. It’s a subtle dance but a dance all the same.

She’s not surprised but doesn’t pull away. “I am cursed, _joor_. It is my fate.”

“But you are _the_ silly Listener,” Cicero’s argument is spoken clearly, articulate. Despite the affectionate term, she finds herself believing he is more assassin than jester at that second. One hand rises to her cheek and his thumb slowly strokes her face. “How could such a devious, bloodthirsty, _dov _fall to a curse? What could possibly curse you, Zaammeytiid? What could—" and he leans over to her ear, his breath fanning her softly as he whispers. “—_dominate _you?”

“Enough of this,” the _dov _hisses at the assassin and knocks his hand away. His words are too tempting, too _exciting_ for her not to react—But there are _things _to do and she will not let a _hypothetical mate _take up her entire day. She observes Cicero drawing back. He wears a wicked grin, but it fades into a calm smile as the jester begins humming again. She huffs. “I do not _remember _what threw me into this _madness_, _joor_, but Kara has promised me freedom. I will cease this form and return to the sky I belong to.”

_“Of course,_ of course! Poor Cicero could never hope to keep silly Listener for himself!” the jester draws back and dances in place, alone and befitting a fool. “Will silly, lovely Listener walk Cicero to the door?”

_She _walks _him _to the door without any other incidents. The _dov _woman stares at him a moment before she opens the door to leave. He’s an oddball, truly, but he is endearing in his own _Cicero _way. She understands why Kara is fond of him. While she keeps the thought to herself, part of Zaammeytiid thinks the same.

“I’ll visit.” The _dov _woman relents before she shuts the Black Door behind her and heads out. For a moment she hears delighted singing beyond the ancient sanctuary door—But then it is gone, replaced by flurries of wind and gales of snow.

With no dragon to be found, she steals a horse from a caravan of _unfortunately _murdered Khajits. The world may never know what stole their spirits, none but _her_, and she feels no remorse toward their limp bodies when she climbs into the saddle of a fierce black mare and gallops off. No _dovah _call from the skies. The Pale is surprisingly free of Thalmor and she puts that fact to use; she presses her horse on and stops only after the fifth hour when the beast of burden is too tired to do more than walk. As Zaammeytiid takes the horses bridle and guides it off the road, she feels a sharp headache come on. The _dov _woman growls and snarls a second but then she is gone. Kara finds herself in the same location, with the same tired horse, and she glances at him.

“Hello, good boy,” the Dragonborn smiles faintly and pats the horses neck. “You deserve rest. I won’t tie you up; if you wander these roads eventually someone will find you. Okay?” She leaves him grazing small, short grasses and sets out on foot.

She makes it ten minutes before the cold drives her up a wall. The woman’s fingertips crackle with conjuration magic as she casts Summon Dremora. The cool of metal gauntlets and armor plating wraps around her immediately, but the Daedra’s body heat is well-worthwhile being half-crushed to death in the Prince’s embrace. When he finally sets her down he has a merry, happy grin and she a fond smile.

“Look at you. Still alive. This calls for a celebration—Or it would, if you weren’t always running around the wilderness.”

_“Thanks,_ Sanguine_. Nice to see you too,_ Sanguine,” the Dragonborn rolls her eyes. “I’m freezing so you get to be miserable with me while I sap all the heat from your body. C’mon, let’s move,” She takes his hand and begins to pull. She’s nothing if stubborn and she ignores the Daedra’s complaints as the two trudge onward. But she knows he’s not _really _that miserable, and she knows he knows she’s more happy to see him than she is about the cold, and both of those things make her happy.

She knows he’s happy when the two—primarily Kara—have to stop and detour into a thicket of trees to avoid the heaviest snowfalls. Sanguine _casually _takes a seat next to her while she gives up on starting a fire with her flames spell. She doesn’t have any hesitation when he pulls her to him. He’s warm, just like the time she accidentally summoned him on the way to High Hrothgar. The woman hums faintly and lets her eyes shut. “This is nice.”

“It would be nicer with a hot meal, perhaps a hot bath, and a hot bed—” His eyes are on her, she knows, but she’s too distracted by the cold to look up. 

“It would.” Kara says softly. “Without interruptions.”

“They could ask to join.”

“Divines, help me, here I thought you were being _serious,”_ the woman grumbles. “That’s on me—Serious Sanguine? No, of course not, that’s a story told since ancient times! Passed on by bookkeepers and archivists! A warning to all who dare think a Daedra is capable of anything but jokes and pranks!”

“I can be serious, for a price,” and the grin is as obvious in his words as on his face when she peers up at him. His eyes are just as captivating as before and she knows she could die happy if they were the last thing she saw before passing. Sanguine leans down and lightly kisses her. Her hands go to his face and she gladly kisses him back, soaking in the warmth.

But a literal blizzard cuts the two off before things go further. Kara snorts and moves her head to his chest plate. “And all of Skyrim tells you _no_. No to _Serious Sanguine._ Only _not-Serious Sanguine _from now on, Sanguine.”

“Why in Oblivion does your _dov _go trekking through snowstorms?” The Daedra huffs. He reaches for Kara’s—Zaammeytiid’s—pack and she watches him dig through it despite knowing what he’ll find. And sure enough, Sanguine retrieves a bottle of wine and uncorks it. He takes a long swig and groans. “I’m asking her that next time she’s around. That and a few more questions about the jester.”

“Cicero? What—Is he alive? Is he okay?” Kara sits upright. Her gaze doesn’t waver but she breaks the magnetic pull of the damn Daedra’s eyes. Concern fills her face as she eyes Sanguine impatiently. “It was—It was a year, wasn’t it? A year since—” She can’t bring herself to say _Thalmor _quite yet. “It was a year, Sanguine? Is he still alive?”

“Apparently.” The Daedra Lord shrugs.

“Good. Then—Perhaps the events of this world aren’t so messed up as they seem. Not yet. What—Gods, I should’ve told Zaammeytiid to write me some notes when—Ugh, did you know she went into my head? My mind?” The woman speaks lightly but the frustration and confusion is clear. She grits her teeth. “Of course—I forgot—Cicero would’ve had to show her the dance we did—In the Ratway—That’s how she got in there. Aetherius can explain that one because it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Then she did her job right for once,” Sanguine’s voice dips low, annoyed. “That _dov _is dangerous. Sometimes she reeks of madness.”

“What do you mean?” The woman frowns.

“Not the madness you punched Astrid over. Which I know you want to do again, _fully approve_ for what it’s worth,” the Daedric Prince’s grin vanishes and he ruffles her hair with one hand. “But a different madness. It’s more than a _dov_’s nature.”

“Sanguine, _no offense_, but what _do_ you mean? My head hurts, I’ve been—My head hurts. It really hurts. I’m not really used to… being _here_ again.” The Dragonborn frowns when he pats her head. “That isn’t helping me understand.”

Even in the cold, she pulls away from him and brings her knees to her chest. He’s a solid buffer between the wind but his larger frame only shields her from half the gales. She shivers but stubbornly looks on until the Daedra snorts.

“Okay, look. You know how I’ve helped you out in the past! Kept other Princes away! Gotten a _real _nice view of you from beneath, too,” he reaches for her and she swats his hand away. “_Ow, _okay, fine, look here. Your _dov _said she was cursed. _Zaammeytiid_ translates to, what? Slave of time? Cursed to time? So what did she do to get herself cursed?”

“Maybe she fucked a Daedric Prince.” It’s said with too much seriousness that Kara can’t even keep her composure and she begins to laugh at her own words. “By Mara—Can you imagine? Do Daedras even care for _dovah?” _

“That’s a good thought, actually.” Sanguine’s back to being almost serious.

Kara groans and stuffs her head in her hands. Her words come out muffled, _“Was a joke!”_

“Hermaus Mora would. But that would put your pretty _dov _in Apocrypha, on his plane in Oblivion. That’s the fate of Miraak, the First Dragonborn.”

“Fuck, forgot about him. Remind me to avoid Whiterun. I don’t know if I can prevent his return from being triggered but I don’t have time or means to stop him right now,” the Dragonborn grimaces at the thought of wandering Solstheim’s desert-ravaged island, home of the _Dragonborn_ D-L-C. “But we can rule Hermaeus Mora out for now. Would Mephala do it? Isn’t she known for manipulation? Treachery, discord? I know she’s associated in _Skyrim _lore with dunmer according to the wiki page but—”

“Is that another of your _earth _things? I think you’ve mentioned it once in the past. 'Wiki.'”

“It’s like—Think of it as one page in a magical tome that can access any information at any time provided it has a page in the book,” the Dragonborn recalls the _world wide web _with surprising ease. “—You use something called the _Internet _to compel this _magic book _to turn to a specific page. Information at your fingertips, anytime and anywhere.”

“Do you think if this gets out to ol’ Mora he’ll pop a boner—”

“No, I don’t and do not want to think about Hermaeus Mora having a _penis._ Thanks, Sanguine, end of discussion.” Kara looks up and snorts. “Look, can you just—You can go to Mephala’s plane in Oblivion, right?”

“To the Spiral Skein.” Sanguine’s face shadows a reluctancy not befitting him. He drinks his wine and shrugs. “Eh.”

“What?”

“So I dunno if your magical _Internet _told you this in your other world—But Mephala and me got some history. Not the fun stuff you’re thinking of,” the latter is added quickly when Sanguine catches Kara’s wide eyes. “But she and I made a _deal _a while back. Real secret stuff, very Mephala-like, the whole sphere and yada yada. But she wanted twenty-seven tokens to give to her mortal crushes and—”

“I doubt they were _mortal crushes_—”

“Interrupting is _rude_, Kara,” the Daedric Prince pats her head and pulls her back to him while she’s busy scowling. Her shivering form settles at his side and she waits for him to go on. “Anyways, _twenty-seven mortal crushes_, can you believe it? But yeah—She wanted them, she made a deal with me, and then the Dark Brotherhood stole them from this band called the _Morag Tong _and long story-short a reincarnated hero systematically murdered your Night Mother and ancient guild brethren for stealing the tokens. It was _bad_. But that’s not the point! The point is that I’ve dealt with her in the past and her work ethic is subpar. She’s no fun, except for the sex.”

“Except for the sex.” Kara laughs and shakes her head. “I hope you don’t think the same of me.”

“Well now that you ask—"

“I didn’t ask.” The Dragonborn huffs and shuts her eyes. “Can you do it, though? Go to her plane? If Mephala is tied up with Zaammeytiid’s situation then I’ll need to deal with her to free my _dov_. Probably.”

The Daedra Lord sighs. His hand fondly ruffles her hair, brushing off fallen snowflakes. It’s a touching gesture but his answer is far more comforting, “I can. But I can’t keep you safe from Oblivion.”

“Aren’t you there right now, technically? Your appearance on Mundus is only the result of being summoned. Or, if you didn’t dump power into certain Dragonborns, you could show up as Sam Guevenne. Still possible to be banished, but more freedom to you.” She doesn’t feel the gales as strongly as before. The wind has died down around the area and the snow fall is light. The warmth of the Daedra makes her cling to him but she doesn’t mind. “If I’m honest—You should do it. I don’t know if you can be helpful here when so many individuals know banishing spells.”

“Kara, look at me a moment.” And the Dragonborn complies. Rich red eyes stare at her. “—Will you be okay on your own?”

“Since when am I on my own? Zaammeytiid and the Dark Brotherhood are behind me.”

“Since you were taken prisoner by the Thalmor for a _year_.” And there it is, the topic she’s danced around instead of taking it seriously since she first summoned him.

Kara’s eyes darken. She stares at him and pushes herself away, upright. She stands and dusts herself off, grabs her pack, and picks up her bow and quiver—the latter courtesy of Zaammeytiid, no doubt. “I compartmentalized it. I don’t want to open that Pandora’s box right now.”

“Pandora’s?”

“It’s an _earth thing_, I don’t expect you to get it.” The woman’s tone becomes curt and sharp the longer she stands near him. Her hair is long again, far from the mid-length cut of _thirty_. She’s _thirty-one_, she reminds herself, and she makes a promise to cut it again when she gets to Falkreath’s sanctuary. “It means I’m not tempting the topic right now, not up for debate, out of discussion, zilch, _nada_. Alright? Let Zaammeytiid and I handle those memories.”

“You were gone for a year. Absent off the face of Skyrim.” The Prince points out as he pushes himself to his feet. His metal armor clinks from the movements.

“I was, but I’m here again. Zaammeytiid made sure of that. I’m ready to be the Listener, the Dragonborn, _Kara_. Not Sloan.” The woman means to mumble the thought under her breath but she thinks it aloud and stiffens. Her eyes dim. “—Forget that. That I said it. I don’t want to speak anymore.”

And to her surprise, and his credit, the response the Daedra Lord gives her is a faint, “Alright. I’ll see to Mephala.”

He doesn’t say goodbye when she dispels him, he simply leaves. He’s not happy with how the conversation went, and she _knows _that, but the woman does not want to tamper with her careful composure. She knows how easy it is for trauma to eat up a soul. She knows how hard it was for Zaammeytiid to snap her back to Skyrim in the first place. She doesn’t desire a repeat of the ordeal. The remainder of the trip is hard and lonely; it takes the rest of the day and an extra day on top of that for her to stumble through the Black Door of the sanctuary. She’s a mess of grime, she wants a bath, and her hair sticks to her head in uncomfortable ways.

It’s a welcome change that Astrid is happy to see her. The blond-woman’s head snaps up when Kara comes sheepishly walking down the sanctuary stairs. “Kara. By Sithis—You actually got back? Arnbjorn!” She calls behind her, to the one bedroom door the entrance hall holds. “Go tell the others! Get Leorn to fix something hot! A sister has returned to us!

“Sorry I’m late.” Kara frowns. “You okay?”

Astrid shakes her head. “No, no—I’m _okay_, Kara, Sithis, that’s not—Listen, go let everyone baby you while you get settled in. I’m sure everyone will be happy to see you.”

And everyone is. It’s a wonderful, humbling experience, to have her family reunited with her. Leorn fixes her a special stew with chunks of venison and rich, hearty potatoes, all presented in a fashion affixed with an _extra big _smile for the Dragonborn. Nazir pats her back—which really hurts, she doesn’t know why—and commends her for making it so far. Babette smiles faintly and refuses to hug her until she gets a bath but welcomes her all the same. Gabriella, the lovely dunmer that is known for prancing in and out of Kara’s life, is gone from the sanctuary. The Dragonborn looks for her to no avail; eventually she finds Veezara in the sanctuary with the Night Mother and he greets her with a nod. No smile.

“She’s off on contract. Alysoin too,” the Saxhleel looks tired and weary as he talks. He holds preservative jars and a bottle of oil in his hands. Veezara catches her looking and smiles faintly. “Oh. Yes. Someone has to keep the Night Mother oiled and cared for. Since… Cicero is gone,” and the Saxhleel strides to the casket, looking up at it in awe. “I decided to start performing the task.”

“Even though you aren’t a Keeper?” The woman walks over. She stops next to him and stares at him until the Argonian returns her gaze.

“It is soothing.”

“Veezara—” Kara’s words are cut off by the Saxhleel’s lips crashing into hers. She stiffens in surprise but relaxes after, her heart in flitting jumps and leaps as she caresses his cheeks with her hands.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The Saxhleel grits his teeth when he draws back and pushes her away. “Kara.”

“Excuse me?” The Listener stares. “I’m the Listener, Veezara—”

“You should go. I have to oil Mother.” The Argonian refuses to meet her eyes again. When Kara doesn’t budge, he stops and snaps in a dark, cold tone, _“Leave.” _

The woman shuts the sanctuary door behind her when she goes. She feels her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. _I’m not a teenager. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry… _

“There you are! Lookit you, all fine and dandy,” the old voice of Festus rings in her ears and she spins on her heels to suddenly find the man _there_, present, in old shrouded robes. He beams at her and nudges in the direction of her shoulder. “The brand heal alright?”

“The brand?”

“Oh, forgot, of course, this brain’s lived a life too long it seems,” the man snorts and taps his forehead. He shrugs. “Your _dov _came walking in a few days ago with a Thalmor brand. Nasty thing it is, but back when Cicero got a magicka brand on him you brought him to me and I got it off. So _naturally, _I got it off this time too. Off your _dov_, but you two share bodies?” The two walk the corridors and stairs from the sanctuary to the dining hall. “I never really paid much attention to _Dragonborn voice stuff _but I’ve worked on picking up a thing or two since we got _the _Dragonborn as a sister.”

“Right. Right,” she clears her throat and sits next to Festus when he halts at a stone table. “What was that about the brand, Festus? You got it off?”

“’Course I did. I’m known for it. You don’t get to be this old and a spellcaster without being a _good _spellcaster.”

“I appreciate it. Oh—Thank you, Leorn,” She takes a bowl of stew when offered by Leorn. He hands her a spoon and zips away, incredibly speedy for an older nord. The Dragonborn looks at the stew and smiles. It smells delicious. “I feel like I’m being spoiled.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Nazir calls from the cooking pot stand. Leorn dances around him with ingredients. All members of the Brotherhood laugh before Nazir throws out, “Hey! Festus, old man! You wanna tell Kara here what we found out?”

“Found out?” She raises a brow.

Festus slaps her on the back. It hurts; Zaammeytiid likely got an injury there the _dov _didn’t feel like telling her about. Festus turns to Kara and props himself up on one elbow while he waves with his other hand to emphasize his words. “So! Kara, Kara, _Kara_, you know, I’m old, that’s great, all good and _fine_. But I’m going to hit the Void soon. I got the feeling in my veins. It’s coming, and by Sithis I’ll go home to our Dread Father with a grin on my face. But it’s made me think. Or, rather, something that popped up two days ago has made me think.”

“Uh-huh?” She devours a large chunk of venison in her bowl and nods at him to go on. Astrid and Arnbjorn join the group in the dining hall.

“When your _dov _walked in four days ago—Gabriella wasn’t out on contract. Our favorite dunmer mentioned something as I worked on getting that nasty Thalmor brand off. She spoke of Lucien Lachance, of how some of us _old folks _can summon the guy and commune with him,” Festus demonstrates by standing and calling the former Speaker’s name. _“Lucien Lachance!”_

The man appears in semi-translucent teal. His form shimmers and fades in and out. He wears ethereal forms of the shrouded robes Kara’s seen Festus and Gabriella don. His eyes are dead and a frown adorns his face, but Kara imagines in life he was very handsome.

“Alright.” She lowers her spoon and pauses. “So you know how to summon him too? Is that what you found out?”

“Actually,” this time Astrid butts in. She pushes her chair back and stretches. “It’s what we found out from Lucien that we wanted to share. I thought you should hear it for yourself.”

“Lucien, Brother,” Festus turns to the ghost and Kara frowns. “Tell her what happened. The conversation at the Dawnstar sanctuary.”

“The _dov Zaammeytiid _spoke to me. Before she ventured into the depths of the sanctuary. Our conversation was short,” the spectral figure replies in a cold, emotionless tone. It is every bit the perfection of the Void as Kara imagines it to be. “I told her: _‘You who are half to Mother’s Listener—I will not put my blade to you lest the Dread Father commands it. But know this: the Night Mother does not seek Cicero’s death.’” _

“The part after that—” Festus elaborates.

“The _dov _looked me in the eye and said, _‘I don’t intend to kill him.’_” Lucien bows his head. Perhaps it is remorseful, regrettable, or something akin to those emotions, but Kara feels nothing from the act. She stares at him a long time as color drains from her face. She turns back to Festus when he coughs.

“There you have it.” The old man bows his head amicably. “From the ghost himself.”

“Kara.” Astrid’s tone makes her jump and the action causes all the Dark Brotherhood members to draw blades, Kara included. The Dragonborn is out of her chair and backing away in seconds. Astrid holds up a hand to the others and frowns. “Kara. Listen. Your _dov _did that—But are you or are you not the _dovahkiin? _Your _dov _isn’t you—”

_Oh, but she is. Two halves to a whole. I am the mortal and she is the Dragon. We are bound, her and I, caged together as one Dragonborn, one Listener. _Kara’s eyes narrow. “Don’t bullshit me, Astrid!”

“I’m trying to give you a _chance _to come clean—” The leader of the Brotherhood snaps. “You covered up the fact your _dov _spared him! Let the jester live! Lied to us! Convinced us all—”

“That was Zaammeytiid!” The Dragonborn snaps. “But even if it wasn’t—So what—_You heard Lucien—_The Night Mother does not wish for Cicero’s death!”

“It is true.” Lucien reiterates from the side.

_You are not helpful, child of darkness. _Kara’s eyes narrow at the ghost. She looks back at Astrid, at Nazir, at Arnbjorn and Festus and Leorn. And she spies Veezara emerge from the upper floor and start the walk down the stairs into the dining hall. The Saxhleel freezes at the sight of weapons drawn by everyone and she takes the opportunity to shout, “Veezara! _Please _help me! They want Cicero dead and it isn’t what Mother wishes for!”

It’s a mistake, for Veezara’s eyes grow wide_. “What?”_

“It’s true. Zaammeytiid has spared the mad man in Dawnstar, hidden him from us. I should have gone to take his head myself,” Astrid calls. She looks back at Kara. “Will you _gol hah _one of us like your _dov_, Kara? Or did Zaammeytiid not mention _that_ as well?”

“Good of you to join us, Shadowscale,” Festus’ hand crackles with frost magic. The old man glances up at Veezara. “We were just discussing the time I found out you were shouted into submission by our Sister’s _dov._ Nasty business, that was.”

That’s why the Shadowscale was cold to her, she realizes. That is why the Saxhleel ordered her to leave, Kara swallows. The Dragonborn feels dizzy and cold as she meets Veezara’s eyes. His face has contorted to anger. _Zaammeytiid bent his will. She forced him into compliance. A fellow child of darkness… _

She finds it hard to keep a grip on her own Daedric blade. Part of her wonders if she should have grabbed her bow instead, but she recalls leaving her quiver upstairs at one of the sanctuary’s bunks. An arrowless quiver would do no good, much less against this many trained assassins. She grits her teeth and stares down Astrid. “I don’t want to hurt any of you—”

“And neither do we,” the words come from Leorn, remorseful. He is the only one whose weapon is not a sword or staff or spell or dagger but a pot. A pot held with both hands, one he looks apologetically to and from between glances at Kara.

No on else at the table has stew, she realizes.

“You wouldn’t!” She pleads, despite knowing the answer.

“It was Alysoin’s idea. I’m sorry, Listener—But I can’t let you hurt our new family. And I don’t want them to hurt you.” The old man offers her sympathy as she drops to one knee and hisses.

She can’t think enough to shout. She knows the words but not the way to speak. A drowsiness settles over her dizzy head and she sees the corners of her world pale in colors. Her Daedric dagger clangs as it hits the ground and someone rushes to catch her when she finally keels over, unable to hold off the sleeping agents in her system. Her world fades to black and she thinks only how ironic it is that in the end, Sanguine was right. She is truly on her own in _Skyrim. _


	32. snow-hunter-wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she deals with her and zaammeytiid's lies catching up with the two, and struggles to get to falkreath as the events of the dark brotherhood questline play out.

She senses ‘it’ long before she awakens; She knows the kind of wooziness that comes from a magical brand. It is far deeper and worse than any physical scar the metal Thalmor left on her back during her imprisonment. Those _hurt _but in a different way; this brand is a magical brand placed across her face by a _prodigy _of magic. She knows it must be Festus’ work, for it burns with an experienced touch. She doesn’t know when he does it but reckons it takes place after the sleeping agents in Leorn’s stew knock her out. It’s good for the Brotherhood to be so cautious; she doesn’t know when the faux assassination of the emperor is to occur, but she prays the caution keeps them alive. She, on the other hand, does not see a way out of her current predicament; she has only time in her mind until the sleeping agents ween out of her system, so she thinks and reflects. 

All of them were clever: the welcoming, Astrid’s orders, it was all part of an elaborate ploy prepared in advanced for her return. She isn’t a fool; she puts two-and-two together once she thinks through it slowly. She knows why Astrid was so shocked at her return. It was not out of concern for the Dragonborn but surprise, for Astrid is the one who gave her the contract of Gaius Maro. It is asinine to consider how much she believed it to be _sheer coincidence _when the Thalmor showed up in Windhelm, at her inn, at _her room_, with knowledge of how to not only banish Sanguine but also contain both her magic and innate thu’um. Normal squads of Thalmor lack in numbers, but no; she recalls how fast they acted and with such intense preparation.

_And if Zaammeytiid had not acted… _They would still own her, as ‘She,’ the fragment of her consciousness that continues to insist and cry out for her to obey the Third Aldmeri Dominion.

_But Zaammeytiid took action. Zaammeytiid played their game. Astrid did not anticipate that. _And it annoys her in part, because the fact Zaammeytiid plays all games so thoroughly is the reason Astrid’s reactions played out the way they did. Zaammeytiid’s decision to go to Falkreath Sanctuary after escaping the Thalmor is, in hindsight, a massive mistake. Kara sees it in her mind: the shock of Astrid’s face, the lack of contracts so-subtly hinting at her to _go away. _She can imagine what Zaammeytiid must have thought at the time: _Go out. Go to the Thalmor who hunt you._

And, in those thoughts, she knows Zaammeytiid leaves. Zaammeytiid seeks out Cicero and his dances, and Zaammeytiid nearly winds up captured by Thalmor _again _because Astrid knows. Kara ponders how. _Probably by tracking my dov. On foot, or horse, the old fashioned way. She must have put someone up to it and had them relay information back to Astrid, or to another person beyond the Dark Brotherhood._ _Maybe… Maybe. _

_Who, though? Who did you use, Astrid? _Perhaps Alysoin, she woefully admits, because she recalls not seeing her at the sanctuary. Perhaps poor Alysoin is the victim of bullying or intimidation. _Perhaps not. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Astrid could have asked Arnbjorn, or Veezara, or…_

But it doesn’t matter, she recants, as it turns out for naught. For Cicero _lives _and for a moment she recalls how he is a sweet motley of ebony blades and blood and laughter. She smiles in her mind, because Zaammeytiid does not fall into Thalmor hands on that expedition. And Kara’s smile becomes a grin at the memory, knowing Astrid becomes a mess of turns played too early, cards revealed too soon, and the game is ongoing. Zaammeytiid is not to be underestimated; she carries pride for her _dov._

_If all of this went so smoothly—I would sit here and laugh. It would all be a breeze _Kara stops smiling in her mind. She stops out of annoyance and aggravation and all the words Zaammeytiid associates with _Cicero _for some strange reason. It becomes painful for her to process. _Everything went wrong so quickly. _

She considers how Astrid used the four days it took to travel to and from Dawnstar to solidify a plan. Kara acknowledges the rashness of it, the call to arms of other Brotherhood members, and she understands why: Astrid feels threatened by the Listener’s post, loyalty, virtues. Astrid is fearful of the tenets and traditions the Listener represents. Astrid _knows _she disobeys the Night Mother and Sithis himself. Astrid is as stubborn and prideful as a _dov_ and in another life Kara imagines Astrid and Zaammeytiid as good friends. _It’s why she took those actions. She’s so stubborn. She will burn the Brotherhood to the ground to prove her point! Why, Night Mother? Why? She will kill them all! Your children of darkness will suffer! She already turned them against your Listener. She spoke of this plan and they agreed to it. Was it because of my dov? Because of Zaammeytiid? Did they fear my dov more than they cared for me? Even Leorn… _

The one-armed Stormcloak deserter is one of the reasons Kara’s heart aches so violently. In her mind she thinks of crying and tears, but the anguish can’t provoke the physical reaction until she wakes. Until then, she is a mess of betrayal and regret that she thought she knew the man. _His dish contained sleeping agents. And his first dish… _

It’s the reason why Zaammeytiid did not intervene. It’s the reason why Zaammeytiid could _not,_ against the haze of the mental barrier that naturally cuts off the two’s direct communication, give even the slightest _roar _in warning. She is unsure what Leorn put in the first bowl he brought her, but it was by Astrid’s orders, and it hurt her _dov_. She wants to rant and rage and sob at the fact. _He poisoned both dishes. One for Zaammeytiid. One for Kara. For us both. Astrid… _

Astrid has won.

Kara’s body is limp and lifeless, but she knows when the poisons wear off in her body she will wake up in a place where light barely shines and no one can hear her screams and shouts. She’s right; when she comes to it is in a cold, dusty shack with boarded-up windows. The magical brand of Festus Krex sears on her face, up and down the right side of her jaw to her temple and across her nose, and she envisions how ugly it must be for the old spellcaster to cast such a large one. But it works in spite of its looks; her magicka pools are dry and she cannot sense her _dov_.

“Sleep well?” And she pictures a flashback, a world where_ Skyrim _is a game and not a land, a world where the player wakes up in an abandoned shack with a beautiful blond Nord in the Dark Brotherhood’s intimidating uniform. Astrid’s words used to inspire excitement in her.

Kara’s vision remains hazy, but her words are clear and she spits them out one-by-one, “You _mey joor. _Fucking bitch!_”_

“I’m not the one who attacked my leader, went against orders, coerced multiple Brothers into forgoing their vows to the sanctuary and myself, covered up and ensured a traitor did not live, shout my siblings into submission, and… No, that should cover it all by now.” Astrid sits where she is found in most games; her body is poised elegantly in a full suit of shrouded armor upon old cabinet tops. The _Blade of Woe _spins dangerously in her hands but her eyes remain locked on Kara. “Want to _gol hah _me, Dragonborn? I know the look in your eyes, my dearest. You want blood. You want dominance.”

“How many days?”

“Pardon?” It’s not the reaction Astrid anticipates, for Kara sees the pause in her response. But the Blade of Woe keeps spinning, spinning, spinning…

“Until you fail at assassinating the emperor! How many days, Astrid!”

“You mean until we succeed? Two days. By Sithis,” the Dark Brotherhood leader jumps to the floorboards and they creak as she walks to Kara and shoves the _Blade of Woe _against the woman’s throat. “Why couldn’t you have stayed with the elves? I didn’t want you to _die_, Kara.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_,” Kara snaps without pause, even as the dagger slips against her skin and draws a line of bright red blood. She hisses and growls at Astrid, daring her to dig deeper. “Is that why you sold me out to the Thalmor? Got a little petty there, Astrid, a bit jealous—I was beginning to think we could be friends—”

“Your actions led to this, don’t think otherwise.” The tone is curt. 

Kara growls and leans forward as far as the manacles attached to the chair allow, “You think I won’t shout you?”

“Shouting won’t help you. If you want to _try_ you will find my lovely assistant here has orders to cut your throat and be done with it.” Astrid smiles faintly behind her mask. It’s a dangerous thing to witness.

Kara snaps her head and watches Lucien Lachance stride forward. The ghost looks emotionless, but in his hands is an ethereal outline of what she believes is a steel dagger. The specter demonstrates the blade by striding forward and plunging it into her thigh. He rips it out afterward while she bleeds into the chair she’s bound to. Her blood pours out and oozes; the Listener snarls and writhes against her bindings to no avail.

“_Stop bullshitting, Astrid, _you want me dead! You can’t do it! You know the others wouldn’t approve of you killing me outright! That’s why you’ve gone behind everyones backs! Dealings with high elves!? The Third Aldmeri Dominion wants all of us dead! They won’t stop at me!” She curses at her lack of magicka, at the temptation to shout, at her uselessness to move or rampage. When she tires, she can almost _hear_ Astrid’s smile.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing how beautiful you look when your throat is filleted and spread open to share with the world.” The assassin looks at her Blade of Woe and then to the cut on Kara’s neck. “But—No. I’m not going to kill you.”

“I’m sure—”

“I’m gifting you to the Thalmor.” The words drain color from Kara’s face and cease her movements immediately. Astrid puts her Blade of Woe into a sheathe at her waist and strides up to Kara. She pats Kara’s head and ruffles her hair fondly. “I’ve been informed they pay very well for _dovah _who run around maiming their Justicars. Is it true your _dov _burnt through the leader’s magicka channels? That’s not easily done.”

_Ondolemar. _The name is a whisper, a garbled breath, from the back of Kara’s consciousness. She stiffens. _“Astrid—”_

“He asked for Zaammeytiid by name. It’s kind of sweet he remembers her.”

_“Please—”_

“He said he wants to take her out for drinks! Can only imagine how it will play out, dearest, I’ve heard the Thalmor are impeccably skilled at brewing poisons these days. That, and the other methods of torture they’ve mastered over the era... Maybe they’ll cut you two up piece-by-piece. A death that comes so slowly the agony drags on for days. How does that sound? Tempting?”

Kara’s stomach churns at the thought. Just considering the name is enough to invoke nausea in her stomach. She shakes her head violently. “No—No—Astrid _please—_Begging you—Cut my throat—Don’t give us to _him!”_

“I can and I will. Or will you shout me, my Sister?” Astrid raises a brow.

Lucien looks just as tempted to strike Kara down as she does to scream at the leader of the Brotherhood in dragon tongue. Both want blood for different reasons. But a dead Dragonborn cannot save a dying Brotherhood. Kara holds her tongue and looks away from the leader of the Dark Brotherhood.

“Glad we’re on equal footing. I won’t see you when this is all over—But I’ll give Cicero a warm welcome after the emperor’s killed.”

_“Mey.” _Zaammeytiid temporarily hisses in Kara's place before the dov's control wanes. _“Mey, joor. Dovahkiin neh viir. Dii faas aus maar frus._ _Dov slen zoor ul!_”

Astrid waves goodbye. “I’ll miss you, my dearest. Remember to kill well—”

_“And often.”_ The Dragonborn spits in farewell. The door of the abandoned shack slams behind Astrid as she departs, leaving the woman alone with a ghost.

Kara turns to stare down Lucien Lachance. “You obey the orders of your summoner, do you not?”

He doesn’t respond.

She grits her teeth and hisses. “I should have asked Sanguine to stay. Why didn’t I ask Sanguine to _stay?_”

There’s not much to do. She plots for the time when the Thalmor will find her, or when the Brotherhood will seek her out to hand her over if they _live through _the Falkreath massacre_._ She considers how she will be in a different physical state. She won’t have her magicka or her dov, her shouts will be accessible but only weak ones if she starts off the day with a full-powered shout at Thalmor heads, and she lacks her bow, any arrows, and all other equipment beyond her mismatching shrouded armor.

_At least Astrid had the courtesy to leave me dressed. _The thought leaves a sour taste in Kara’s mouth. She grimaces. The ghost nearby does nothing to help; he waits and watches her with unblinking dead eyes. She occasionally passes the time by staring at him in a faux contest. It’s useless. She’s useless. She feels a nag of helplessness batter her brain while she tries to keep her hopes up. By the time the little light outside begins to fade, she knows better than to continue hoping. She wants to, desperately, but given how the _entire Dark Brotherhood _abandoned her, and her inability to reach out to either Sanguine or Zaammeytiid, she refuses to continue hoping. Her only real hope lays in the time when she anticipates Thalmor or Brotherhood to arrive. Whoever finds her is her only chance out of the shack and back into the shadows; she cannot afford to fail at the escape.

Sometime in the latest of evening hours, or earliest of morning hours, when the world outside is pure shadows and befitting an assassin, she’s jolted awake and to consciousness by the sound of Lucien Lachance being dispelled. She stares in confusion before it clicks in her mind. _He’s considered a once-a-day power in the video game. He lasts until the day. After that… You have to summon him again. _

She holds off on doing anything, just in case Astrid suddenly pops out of nowhere to surprise her with the ghost again. As Kara waits out the seconds, a wind whips up outside and she hears plants bend and break under the steps of something. A disgusting feeling falls in her stomach; if there are bandits around she does not anticipate getting out without more scratches. She’s not in good fighting form—it’s been less than a week since Zeemmeytiid wrenched her from Thalmor—but she’s willing to give it her all. She stares at the abandoned shack door as the lock and knob rattle and shifts. Voices drift outside. A lock clinks in the door and it swings open to reveal none other than—

_“Babette?”_ Kara sputters.

An Argonian peeks around the small vampire’s form. Babette huffs and looks back at the Saxhleel. “See, I _told _you, you have to listen _closely,_ or you won’t hear the tumblers inside.”

Veezara doesn’t look amused. He does not pay much attention to the vampire; his eyes land on Kara and she stares at him in mild disbelief.

“We would have come sooner, honestly, but lovely leader is a smart one. I hope the man’s gone, because I would prefer not to fight such a respected child of the Void,” Babette runs a hand through her red-brown hair and shrugs as she walks up to Kara. “Lucien Lachance’s fighting skills _are _commendable. I could beat him, _sure,_ but _Veezara?_ Not a chance.”

“Hold still.” Is all the Shadowscale says once he reaches her. A rudimentary set of lockpicks begin to work on her manacles.

Babette pokes at the chair she’s stuck to. “You could probably have smashed this and wriggled out enough to try and lockpick these things yourself, Listener.”

“…Well, I didn’t think of that. Not with an ancient, highly-respected dead Speaker ogling me.” The Listener confesses quietly. She flinches when the manacles snap open and her freed wrists rub one another. “How many days have I been here?”

“One, Listener.” Veezara calls from behind her chair as the second pair of manacles frees itself from her ankles. She gladly kicks them away and stands; her balance is off from lack of movement and her muscles cramp to the point she sways and teeters. The Argonian catches her before she falls and sets her back on her feet. “I’m sorry we were not here sooner. We had to make sure Lucien dispelled. Knowing Astrid, she likely gave him orders to kill any Brotherhood member who came on site to help you.”

“Well—You came.” She manages a smile for the Saxhleel. She feels her heart dance when he returns it.

“Kara, Listener, with all due respect—And I say that sincerely, not only because you are the Listener—We didn’t come here solely out of obligation to help a colleague. Veezara mentioned something to me and it made me want to help. Otherwise he would be on his own, or dead in a ditch. Likely the latter, if he were not so convincing.” Babette smiles pleasantly like she didn’t consider murdering the Saxhleel in his sleep.

Veezara grimaces. “Over a year ago—When you took me to Volunruud—You had a night where you spoke the strangest things. Things I did not understand. Things I could never believe. And I didn’t believe, not then. But right now—” The Saxhleel pauses. “—Yesterday, rather. After you fell unconscious. I mentioned the things you spoke of to Babette. Of time wounds, other worlds, Daedric Prince sorcery. You used the name Sanguine—”

“Funny, hmm? I imagine everyone else at the sanctuary lacks the knowledge I have on _Daedric Prince sorcery,”_ Babette covers her mouth with her hands and laughs lightly. “But when you’re alive long enough you pick things up, Kara, you do. Three hundred years of knowledge tucked into a tiny head, hmm?”

“That doesn’t explain why—” Kara frowns. “Why you would believe him. Rumors of nonsense circulate the entirety of Skyrim.”

“Because you brought a _man _to the sanctuary once. I remember him as a Breton. A very obnoxious fellow who smelled of wine and mead. And I said I didn’t like him—Because I didn’t, and I don’t, and I will never care for the Daedric Prince Sanguine.” Babette states as politely as she can. “Hundreds of years ago—His deal with _Mephala _led to the slaughter and destruction of Dark Brotherhood sanctuaries around Tamriel, around the time of the Oblivion Crisis. _You _two kids were not alive for it. And, truly, if I had not been—I wouldn’t think any of Veezara’s babble had value. But you brought him to us! Veezara reminded me of your claim of entanglement with the Daedra! It’s a dangerous dance to duo, you and a Daedra Lord.”

“I know it is.” Kara looks to the side. She knows she still has specks of black Dremora tissue across her body, from her death after killing Sahlokniir by Kynesgrove.

“But you choose to dance it. Frankly, I have zero desire to watch _another _bloodshed caused by someone pissing off _another _Daedric Prince. Zero! None!” Babette shoves a finger at Kara and huffs. “So we need to resolve this. You said Sanguine, right? Lord of Debauchery, Hedonism, Indulgence? Which makes perfect sense given you’re bedding the Daedra—"

Kara hides her face in her hands and hisses. “Zaammeytiid said that, didn’t she? I’m going to kill her.”

“Make sure Sanguine doesn’t go around murdering our sanctuary. I don’t particularly care what you do as long as I don’t have to watch another Brotherhood fall.” The tiny vampire smiles and draws back. She crosses her arms.

Kara swallows. “About that—”

“What? Listener?” Veezara gives her a sideways glance.

“Babette, Veezara, try not to freak out,” Kara holds up her hands and inhales. “But Falkreath Sanctuary is going to be ambushed when the emperor is executed. And the emperor is not really being executed. It’s an impersonator.”

“That’s a little far-fetched. Astrid’s intelligence is sufficiently accurate to rely on.” Veezara replies gently.

“Ah, yes, Astrid, the woman who sold me out to Thalmor _a year ago_,” Kara’s voice dips into a bitter tone and she doesn’t care. Her fists clench. “I’m not here to appeal the overthrowing of Astrid, alright? But she doesn’t realize she’s been sold out by her contacts. The Penitas Oculatus is led by a man called Commander Maro. He’s going to arrange the raid of the sanctuary and people are going to die.”

“They don’t have the pass code.” Babette says without blinking.

The Listener scowls. “They do! You have to _trust me_—”

“After you lied.” It’s not a question but a statement. It makes the Listener stiffen and her heart fall. She swallows and straightens upright; her eyes veer from Babette to Veezara as the Saxhleel continues. “I’m sorry, Listener. But I find it hard to believe anything you say right now.”

“If you didn’t—Why did you _help _me?” The Listener hisses at him. She turns to Babette. “Both of you! I don’t _care _if I live if the rest of the Brotherhood dies! You want to avoid a massacre? Trust me! _Please!”_

Babette’s dark vampire eyes narrow. She looks like a kid, truly, with the same youthful cheeks and big eyes. She pauses. “—What do you need, Listener?”

“Someone to go to Dawnstar—This is ridiculous—And by ridiculous I mean it makes perfect sense given Zaammeytiid is fucking obsessed with Cicero—” Something in Kara resents the words but she’s still pissed over the _dov _announcing _her personal business _with Sanguine to apparently half the Brotherhood, if not all of them. The Listener inhales deeply and forces her nerves to calm. “If we have one day left… Does that mean today? Or does it mean tomorrow? Babette, Veezara.”

“Today. Later today. Noontime.” Veezara states. His eyes narrow.

She curses in _dovah _tongue and shakes her head. “That’s—God damnit! If I could get to Dawnstar and alert Cicero to the fact I’m about to dump renegade Dark Brotherhood members on him it would _really help _but I don’t see that happening. We need to go straight to Falkreath—If we steal horses—Find a _dov_—”

“There’s no dov for several miles. By several, I mean a _lot_. I counted, Listener,” Babette frowns. “Horseback will get us there by… Perhaps, what? This time tomorrow? A little sooner? It will be past the execution time—”

“That’s too late! I know how this goes—” Kara rakes hands through her hair and shakes her head. “Whoever executes the fake emperor—They’re going to be ambushed by Commander Maro _there _and Maro will reveal that an attack on Falkreath has already been launched!”

“Alysoin and Gabriella,” Veezara breathes and Babette and Kara alike snap their heads to look at him. The Saxhleel curses quietly. “They were sent out on the emperor contract. Alysoin is posing as the Gourmet. Gabriella is present to provide back-up.”

“But doesn’t the fact—All hypothetically speaking, of course, if what you say is true—that Commander Maro reveals an attack has been launched means the attack begins _before _the not-emperor is killed?” Babette asks. She scrunches her nose and sighs. “How annoying.”

“She’s right. We would have to get to Falkreath before noon today. What’s the time?” The Listener makes for the door and pulls it open. A sunrise greets her and she howls with infuriation. “That’s only—Six hours—Until _noon_—At the most—We’re in Eastmarch, aren’t we? Solitude and Falkreath are two different points on the map! We can’t fast-travel—I can’t even commune with Sanguine right now because of this _god-awful _brand—” She hisses at the brand on her face and briefly contemplates clawing it out of her skin, but she doubts it would help given the magical properties.

Babette winces. “I don’t know what fast-travel is, my Listener, but we will not make it on horseback. We also do not have Festus to remove the brand.”

“I couldn’t have asked him to come. He likes the Listener but believes she made a mistake lying to cover-up for the jester. He thinks this is punishment for breaking one of the tenets.” Veezara shakes his head.

“I need a _dov. _I could be there in less than six hours with a _dov_.” The Listener trembles in rage and fear and anticipated mourning. “I need… I also need to tell Cicero! I can’t have him attack you all! He’s still—I don’t know—Zaammeytiid is useless informing me how he is when she lies about everything related to him!”

“Send me to Dawnstar.” Veezara’s suggestion makes her shut up.

She eyes him warily. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m faster than Babette.” The Shadowscale’s eyes narrow. He walks to the Listener and puts hands on her shoulders. “I can match Cicero’s speed in combat if it comes to that—And I won’t kill him. Maybe a few solid punches, but I know to let him live until you get there.”

“I thought you didn’t believe me.” Kara swallows.

Veezara’s eyes soften. “I’m not sure what I believe now. But it seems right. It has a purpose. I do not want my family to die.”

The Listener shuts her eyes and hisses softly. “—Damnit, Veezara, do not let him stab you again. And try not to punch him! It’s not in the Night Mother’s will for him to die—And—”

“I’ll be fine.”

“We should get moving soon, Listener.” Babette interrupts the two before either can say another word.

Kara nods. She pulls Veezara to the side, out of the shack and in the growing sunlight, and tells him firmly. “The Black Door of Dawnstar will ask you a question you aren’t used to. The answer is innocence. And Cicero—When you find him—Tell him the kindly Listener said, ‘darkness rises when silence falls.’ It is the binding words, the words I first told him when we met in the Pale long ago. I hope it will convince him you were sent by me. And,” she feels her heart thump in her chest. “Veezara—I’m sorry for lying to you.”

He gives her a smile. “We can talk more after all of this… stops. After it’s over. I have to go, and so do you.”

And like that—he’s gone. Kara and Babette stand side-by-side as the Shadowscale’s nimble form takes off and disappears into the marshes and plains and hot springs of Eastreach. The Listener turns to Babette, glances at the climbing sun, and frowns. “We need to find a _dov. _There’s no other way.”

“Hmm. I can’t help with that. I’m potions and alchemy, not flying winged reptiles.” The vampire shrugs amicably.

_Zaammeytiid. Please. _The Listener inhales deeply. _I need you. We all need you. We need a dov. Tell me how to find a dov._

What she receives in her mind is a series of distorted, garbling visuals. She sees falling snow, a hunter in traditional garb fishing along the coast of Skyrim, and a beautiful bird’s wing. She sees a raging blizzard, a stalking cat, and a snowy owl perched on a branch. Her brows furrow and a headache begins to rake her brain as she holds her head in her hands. “What does it mean? Snow? Snow. Or Ice? No, it has to be snow—It has to be. Hunter? Cats hunt? Unless the man was a fisherman, but—”

“Listener? Your face looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” Babette puts a hand on her arm. It helps ground the woman and gives her control of her thoughts.

“Okay. Snow. Hunter. The last one confuses me. I saw a bird both times. The first one—I don’t know the type of bird, only its outstretched wings—By Oblivion, that’s it, isn’t it?” The Dragonborn blinks and guffaws at her own breakthrough. She turns to Babette and throws her arms around the smaller figure. “Snow-Hunter-Wing! It’s a shout! Babette, it’s a _shout! _Zaammeytiid gave me a shout! She rarely mentions it without me digging it out of her bit-by-bit!”

“Kara _please—” _The vampire coughs and sputters when the Dragonborn finally releases her. Babette huffs and clenches small fists. _“Please _do not do that.”

“I got excited.” The Listener feels sheepish, but there’s no time for apologies. She grabs Babette’s cold, undead hand and pulls the vampire away. “Let’s go! I know what I’m going to do!”

They find a vast hot spring that looks shallow enough for Zaammeytiid’s subtle suggestion to work. The Listener tells Babette to stay close and a few shouts of _laas _and rounds of giant-killing later, the Listener feels satisfied enough to try out the shout. She inhales and straightens upright. Her eyes narrow on the sky above and she lets her soul connect with the wind, the earth, and the sky. She thinks of how happy she’ll be when this is over. She thinks of how happy she’ll be when everyone lives. She sucks in a deep breath and feels ice form in her lungs as she shouts in _dov _speech the call of Alduin’s lieutenant—

_“Od-Ah-Viing!” _The Dragon roars the thu’um and it crackles with a motley of dancing ice and snowflakes as it takes shape in the air and dissipates.

For a moment—nothing happens. Her mind reels as she prepares to accept the inevitable, that the _dov _will not come, for she only knows the information from the wiki pages of Skyrim save the very rare playthroughs she finishes the main questline. But her body feels the winds change, the earth rumble, and the sky _howl _as a deafening roar shakes the area and a dark shape appears on the horizon. The red scales of Snow-Hunter-Bird are mottled in snow-white as Odahviing circles and roars in greeting. The dragon is big, but the Listener is knowing, and she stands tall and firm in the face of the dragon until he flies low enough for her to shout, _“Gol hah dov!” _

The thu’um wraps around Odahviing in an instant. He’s powerful enough to try and resist it, but she is the Last Dragonborn and her will is to be commanded. Her eyes lock unto his and his form falls from the sky and sends a wave of water splashing over both Listener and Babette alike as he lands and veers at her obediently.

_“Unslaad krosis, Odahviing, ov dii dovahkiin.”_ She feels Zaammeytiid whisper the words _through_ her. She grins ear-to-ear and begins to climb unto the dragon. Odahviing waits for instructions. The Listener looks back and grabs unto Odahviing with one hand before extending the other out to Babette.

The vampire does not look happy with the arrangement. “Is this really the only—”

Babette looses a childish scream as the Listener pulls her to sit in front and then shouts at Odahviing to take off. “Go, go! Falkreath! The Pine forest!”

He’s a magnificent dragon. He leaps into the air and catches the nearest wind current. The dragon bellows a roar to clear the sky of clouds before he’s flying forward at a speed the Listener has only dreamed of on planes. Babette clutches the Listener for dear unlife and all the latter can do is laugh uncontrollably at the feeling of _freedom _on her face. The wind, the altitude, the _cold_, it is all _perfect _for the Dragonborn and puts her right at home! In the sky, where no one can tell her what to do or where to go—Her heart leaps and _somehow_ she knows Zaammeytiid must feel the same, even with the brand jamming their ability to commune with one another.

Odahviing’s flight takes them over the Throat of the World. At one point the Listener is forced to shout the _gol hah dov _shout once more before the dragon has a chance to buck them off. Babette and her marvel and gawk at the beauty of raging snowstorms surrounding the summit of the Throat of the World. The Dragonborn points out the structure of High Hrothgar when they pass overhead, and she can’t resist shouting a gleeful _fus ro _in greeting at the monks who helped her long ago. When she hears the thundering of a _fus _in return, she throws her head back and laughs. Then, Babette begins laughing like she is an actual kid, and the two are nothing but giggling messes atop an ancient, deadly dragon who remains compelled by her thu’um to obey.

When they pass over Helgen’s ruins, the Dragonborn makes a point of prodding Babette in the side and grinning. “Alduin almost killed me there once!”

“Why didn’t he succeed!?” Babette laughs back.

“I was a-head of his game!” And Kara breaks down in tears from how much her sides hurt, the roar of wind against her and Babette the only thing to remind her to _hold on _lest she fall to her death off Odahviing then and there.

Then they are approaching Falkreath’s immediate territory and Babette and her quiet down. The joy of the flight over the past couple hours dissipates with Babette’s pointing. The Listener’s eyes follow Babette’s finger and she stares in horror at smoke rising from the ground in a familiar section of the Pine Forest. She and Babette don’t say it but both know what the other thinks: _we’re too late. _

“No, they’re fighting—There’s Festus!” Babette screams as Odahviing circles overhead.

A wave of fire emerges from a lone brother on the ground. Festus’ hairless head is barely visible from their height but the Dragonborn’s spirit lifts in hope they aren't late after all. She shouts at Odahviing, “Get us lower and clear the ground forces! Don't touch anyone wearing black-and-red!” before turning to Babette and shifting enough to pick the tiny vampire up. Babette squirms and gawks at her. Kara gives her a Sanguine-like grin, wicked to the core, and says. “You trust me, right!? Trust me as your Listener, Babette?!”

_“Please don’t drop me!” _Babette screams back.

The Dragon looks apologetically at the vampire. “Do you trust me!?”

“Yes—Yes—Kind of—What are—You—”

And to Babette’s dismay—and Kara is _oh-so-aware_ of it, as the vampire’s screams and protests fills her ears—the Listener waits until Odahviing is flying low over the top of the Sanctuary. She forces herself to kneel and slowly pushes herself against the wind, relying only on luck and sheer _dovahkiin _instinct not to fall off too soon, before she _leaps _off Odahviing’s back and in a manner all too much like the time Zaammeytiid almost got her killed—

_“Mul! Qah! Div!”_

The Listener and Babette plummet.


	33. sahkriimir, sweet child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kara and babette rush to save all they can as the falkreath sanctuary is raided. zaammeytiid is forced to confront one of the elves responsible for her and kara's imprisonment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dark towards the end  
warning for implied forced abortion  
please read with care

The Listener and Babette plummet.

Beautiful white scales dipped in _gold_ flock to her form; the scales cover the Listener with ethereal, draconic scales befitting the likes of her _dov_. When she hits the ground, she and Babette _crash _unto an unfortunate Thalmor mage, whose soft robes and flesh crumple and squish to absorb the impact of the landing. Babette’s scream doesn’t die down until Listener begins to laugh in disbelief that anything actually _worked. _The screams die down to gasps as Babette cringes and applies golden restoration magic not only to her own shattered bones but also to the blood oozing out of the Listener’s thigh. In the chaos of everything from the abandoned shack to summoning and bending the will of Odahviign, the Listener forgets of her own wound. It was clotted over but the landing frees it and starts the blood flow again.

Babette pulls Kara’s still-laughing form out of the landing zone and presses golden magic to the wounds. Smoke douses the area and, judging from the dead elven mage beneath them, both Thalmor and Penitus Oculatus members alike are present to rid Skyrim of the scourge of the Dark Brotherhood. The Listener’s laughter melds into hisses and snarls as Babette’s flimsy restoration magic presses into the wound and the flesh mends slowly. The vampire gasps and pants with sweat lining her dead brows. She shrugs and shakes her head. “That’s—It’s all I can do for now, Listener—But if I were _mortal_—I’d be dead! _That was a terrible idea!” _

“But it livened things up, huh?” The Listener manages to bite back the laughter she wants to continue. She’s helped to her feet by Babette. “I didn’t know you knew any magic. I thought you were just—”

“A vampire? Tch, how judgmental, when this is over—_Duck!”_ Babette screeches and pulls the Listener into the sanctuary before a glass great sword crashes against the ajar Black Door.

The Listener shoves Babette behind her—unfortunately more hostiles are inside, the sanctuary has already been breached and now it is less a matter of defending their home than it is getting people out alive—and stares the Thalmor. She can feel Babette shout at her, something about _Penitus Oculatus _members inside, but the Listener wants blood and she growls her intent before she ducks under another swing and makes for the high elf’s wrists. With the _Dragon Aspect _shout applied to her form, she is a blaze of golden-white fury as she breaks the elf’s wrists with the force of her grasp. The greatsword drops. The soldier screams in agony as she continues to _pull _and the bones shatter and give way; she throws them to the side and rips the man’s spine from his body in howls and snarls and _shouts _of rage.

_Babette. _The thought dawns on the Listener. She knows Festus is outside—But she can’t spare him more time, not when more brothers and sisters linger in the sanctuary. She whirls around in time to catch sight of the vampire’s ruthless fangs ripping flesh from a Penitus Oculatus body. A second dead soldier lays at the vampire’s feet. The Listener breathes out slowly as Babette wipes blood from her lips and smiles.

“Still think I’m a kid, huh? I take offense to that.” The small assassin huffs.

The two carefully tread downstairs to the waterfall room. They catch sight of Arnbjorn and Leorn back-to-back, sandwiched between golden-skinned elves and heavily armored Imperials alike. Arnbjorn’s transformed into a werewolf and his howls of rage and agony are enough to make the Listener’s heart hurt. Babette shouts her name and points at the ceiling in time for her to catch sight of it beginning to crack and shudder. The _dov _outside, if it’s still obeying orders, is not helping.

_This is where the ceiling caves in and kills him in the game._

_“Fus ro!”_ The Listener screams and tears herself from Babette’s form. She sends elves, imperials, and Arnbjorn across the cavern’s floor. Arnbjorn crashes into the waterfall where the Thalmor and Penitus Oculatus agents snap and go limp upon hitting a stone support pillar. The entire sanctuary _rumbles _in agony and Imperials begin to shout orders and Thalmor likewise, but it doesn’t matter; the ceiling crashes down on the right side of the room and buries everything and everyone in sight. The Listener stiffens and freezes and stares as she watches a chunk of stone, of the sanctuary, of the _safest place in Skyrim, _topple unto Leorn’s figure and crush him. A smear of red shoots out where it lands and she feels like vomiting on sight before the anger arrives in waves.

She doesn’t register Babette trying to hold her back, or the fires exploding from the remaining Thalmor who throw up flames spells and fireballs at the duo the second they catch wind of the two. The Listener sees red and Leorn’s name is sung in an ear-piercing screech as she rips through Thalmor and tears them apart with her bare hands. She wrenches armor off their bodies from the power of the Dragon Aspect shout, and she shrieks and bellows her fury at the remaining Penitus Oculatus members in blazing fiery flurries and icy cold gales of _yol _and _fu _respectively. Babette runs past her to the waterfall and the Listener thinks nothing of it until she hears Arnbjorn’s gasps of pain and his heaving for air. His bloody form drifts to the shallow of the waterfall’s lagoon. Babette and the Listener pull him out of the water and Babette chides him harshly as she presses restoration magic into his open wounds.

“My wife—” The werewolf’s voice is hoarse and desperate, _fearful_. It’s unlike him.

“Where is she?” The Listener hisses.

“Nigh…” But Arnbjorn cannot finish the word. He falls limp, and Babette presses a hand against a spot on his neck. Her eyes brighten and she nods.

“Alive but unconscious,” the vampire confirms. Babette meets her gaze and frowns. “Go! Nazir and Astrid are still here somewhere!”

The Listener takes off running and makes a beeline for the dining hall. She finds Nazir cornered by two Penitus Oculatus members and a Thalmor mage. The Dark Brotherhood member is panting, bloodied, and wielding two scimitars like knives before a feast. The woman dives off the stairway and slams her body weight into one Penitus Oculatus soldier. His ribs crush from the blow and his armor gives way while the other two spring into action, surprised. Nazir likewise takes to the intruders and the two Brotherhood members dip and weave and cut and _rip _through the invaders like they are nothing but ants beneath their feet. Nazir pants and looks over at her. “How are you alive—”

“Go to the waterfall—Help Babette take Arnbjorn out of here! _Gol hah! _Go! Help her!_” _The Dragonborn screams and watches the man take off.

That leaves one living and a corpse to get out of the sanctuary.

_Astrid. _The name is on the tip of her tongue as she scurries beyond flaming chambers and dead soldiers in Thalmor robes and Imperial armor alike. The Listener stumbles into the Night Mother’s sanctuary last, beyond relieved to find the casket not tarnished or desecrated in spite of the sanctuary being breeched. She hears footsteps behind her and whirls around to see Babette. _Nazir took Arnbjorn out by himself—_But the thought comes to a halt as she sees Babette’s pale face whiten in horror. It’s the first time such an expression has come across the vampire. She turns around and follows Babette’s line of sight beyond the casket, to the other side of the room, where—among droves of dead Thalmor and Penitus Oculatus members—is a cruel sight.

The hands of a high elf with streaky gray hair and delighted lips are wrapped around their leader’s neck. Astrid’s form is covered in a motley of bruises and bloody clothing, grime and lacerations of sword-cuts and knife wounds hinting at the struggle she put up. The Listener stares in horror as Ondolemar’s voice rings out.

“You’re very amusing. You thought we would help you _get out? _After you killed all these fine soldiers? I will parade your head on a pike next to your dog and bastard child.” The high elf ponders aloud in a tone far too casual. The Listener feels panic grab her insides and for a moment she’s frozen as memories of what the man and his comrades did to her come running back and seizing control.

Something about Astrid is off. It’s the woman’s abdomen, the Listener finds as she stares aimlessly. There are deep cuts in such a _particular_ way, with the skin extended like something had been housed inside. It clicks. Babette grabs her arm and tries to shake her back to reality, but Kara is fading in and out of consciousness and subconsciousness. _Astrid is… They… Was… _It’s too much for the woman to process. She _screams _in agony at the leader who betrayed her, at the man who turned her into a _toy, tool, puppet, _and she screeches in red rage at the dead, clotted fetus strewn haphazardly in one corner. Zaammeytiid is forced to take over the body right as Ondolemar notices the two; the _dov _comes face-to-face with the smiling man who she maimed so, so recently.

_“Zaammeytiid.”_ Ondolemar greets her with a wicked grin and drops Astrid; the latter’s body flops lifelessly on the ground. Ondolemar is dressed in fine glass armor, with enchants marking every piece. A glass dagger is pulled from a sheathe at his waist and a glass sword comes from the other hip’s scabbard. “Pity the _dov _who cannot differ a mage from a commander.”

“Get the bitch out!” The _dov _roars at Babette. She feels the tough, protective scales of the Dragon Aspect shout begin to fade.

She knows she has a limited amount of time. The thought of bending wills does not occur to her as Ondolemar lurches forward with surprising speed; the man is a menace and she wants to kill him with his pride _ripped_ from his hands. His blades are one thing but the _dov _woman weaves and ducks and dances around them with intention not to _strike _but to find the right opening. She feels one dagger slide through her right arm, and she grins at the metallic smell bursting from her veins. Babette’s golden restoration magic lights the Night Mother’s sanctuary as Zaammeytiid directs Ondolemar to follow her to the opposite side of the room. Zaammeytiid throws herself back at one wall and ducks low enough to avoid being decapitated—but not enough for her hair to escape, with locks falling off in an abrupt shave. She snorts and takes to the other side of the room. Ondolemar is clearly aggravated and looking for her blood.

“You should learn your place in the world, dragon.” The Justicar states. His eyes darken. “I intend to bring your head back for my mantle.”

“You can’t get head any other way?” The woman snorts.

As the two dance and parry around the other, Zaammeytiid is repulsed, mortified, and relieved to witness Babette throw an arm around Astrid’s unconscious form and pull her out of the Night Mother’s sanctuary. Her distraction is a mistake Ondolemar picks up on. His glass dagger cuts into her abdomen, and he seems to grow excited as his smile expands into a wicked, callous grin. She’s okay with the exchange; where the vampire takes Astrid is irrelevant! What matters is they’re out and gone and she’s got a high elf to step on. She pulls the glass dagger from her gut with a roar and lunges at him. Rumbles come from the rest of the sanctuary as he side-steps and shreds her back with his glass shortsword. She’s quick enough to continue moving forward before the blade goes too deep, but the pain of a back-injury stings and goes deep into one shoulder.

It’s irony at it’s finest she has _another _back injury! She spins on her heels and crashes into him before he has a chance to lift his sword and repeat the strike.

The two crash to the ground. Her dagger is thrown to the side; she can’t hold it from the pain. Zaammeytiid and the high elf roll over and over around the floor, across broken shards of glass and dirt and ruined tapestry. The _dov _woman sinks her teeth into Ondolemar’s neck—it isn’t his back but it’ll do—to remind him who _she_ is as he tears at her hair and rips out chunks. The man hisses in pain and jams a hand into her back wound. She screams in pain and falls back; he climbs on top of her and presses his body weight unto her arms. The sharp glass greaves make her howl in pain as they dig into her elbows and threaten to pop the joints.

Ondolemar stares down at her with a wicked gleam. His fist raises and the gauntlet smashed into Zaammeytiid’s face. She shudders and growls and thrashes against the man as he hits her, and hits her, and hits her. He spits on her face when she goes limp and climbs off her. He retrieves his shortsword and points it at her throat. “I’m sure we’ll find use for your corpse.”

_“Iiz slen nus,”_ Zaammeytiid howls the shout of Ice Form at the man. She smiles through cracked teeth and a broken nose as he screams in agony. The magic of her thu’um climbs up his side, slips through his armor, and with a thundering shatter the thu’um freezes the man in place and covers him with a thick layer of glassy, shining ice. She can’t bring herself to move or sit up, but she grins in pride. _Guess you weren’t here for Kara’s and Veezara’s sparring match. We don’t play fair, joor. _

The pain of her injuries, of her blood loss, and waning adrenaline makes her gasp and shiver in place. She can barely move without sharp hisses of stabbing pain and venomous curses falling from her lips. She’s grateful Kara isn’t here to see it, and grateful she won’t get stuck hearing all about how pissy Sanguine is that they’re both going to die. Her eyes drift to the Night Mother’s casket. She smells smoke and fire in the distance; it’s a distinct impression of _burning _that fills her nostrils and her eyes soften. _This madness… _

She tries to think of past Dragonborns and their experiences at this scene, where the Night Mother speaks to the Listener and ushers her into the casket. It’s a place of safety, of comfort, and of peace despite the supposed end of the Dark Brotherhood around the Dragonborn. For the _dov, _she can only stare and breathe and think in pain while she hears flames grow and feel the smoke thicken. She cries out and wails as she tries to crawl to the casket. Her eyes shut in the tears. _This is pathetic, dov! Zaammeytiid! Cannot even stand on your feet! Beyn! Beyn, beyn, beyn! _

But she’s dying. She opens her eyes and looks at the sanctuary entrance. Flaming wood has crumpled and bled into a mix of fire and dirt and stone across the room’s only doorway. The once-beautiful Sithis-stained glass on the wall behind the Night Mother’s casket is shattered into hundreds of small, jagged pieces. She doesn’t see any Dark Brotherhood members in the waterfall room beyond it. She sees only smoke and fire, rock and debris. Her eyes shut again; she exhales sharply. She retches at smoke filling her nostrils but relaxes at the realization she’ll asphyxiate before burning to death.

_But Kara… _She doesn’t know what will happen to the Dragonborn, to her half, to _her _Dragonborn half. The woman isn’t a _consumer _anymore. Only consumers restart the cycle. For all Zaammeytiid knows, she will be lost to some factor of Oblivion or sent to the Void and subsequently Zaammeytiid will be given another consumer who taps into the universe for fun and games. It’s a gut-wrenching thought. The two have experienced so much, built such strange lives, and only recently begun to build any kind of actual comradery among each other. _No. Not Kara. Not my Dragonborn. She needs to live. If not me— _Her eyes return to the Night Mother’s casket.

“Mother,” the _dov _woman wheezes. _Mother, come unto me. Save your child from the smoke that desecrates these grounds. I plead, unholy matron, do not let the darkness take this Listener away. Send a savior to keep her safe. Send a blade to soothe her fears. Someone. Anyone. Please._

There’s no response—But Kara is stubborn and so is she; she can no longer see more than the ground a few feet out from her from the thick smoke but the _dov _woman is not done with life yet. Zaammeytiid hisses and bows her head. She can recall, faintly, a phrase of the Black Sacrement, the horrific ritual used to commune wishes of the vengeful with the Night Mother.

_Sweet mother, sweet mother. Send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear… _The _dov _woman growls and pulls herself inch-by-inch over broken glass and shredded keeping tomes. She slowly reaches for the casket and presses a bloody handprint unto it. “Sweet mother… Mother… Send your child unto me… Sins of unworthy… My sins… Must be baptized in blood and fear…” She is disgusted at her overwhelming urge to cry. She rests her forehead against the coffin. “Please… Please protect… Dragonborn…”

_Lucien Lachance. _The name is all the casket offers.

She stares at the casket, in disbelief at having heard the voice at all. The realization triggers an ethereal warmth across Zaammeytiid’s form.

“I cannot call... Sweet mother,” She curses internally. She feels something touch her head, gentle and sweet and comforting beyond words she knows in _dov _and common tongues alike. “...I am not _worthy!"_

_Then we will make you worthy, child of darkness. For you have chosen me and prayed to the Dread Father in place of your God. _The casket doesn’t move but the voice sings to her from beyond the mortal plane. _You are the zaam mey tiid. Slave of time. You betray your kin? Disavow your god? Disown the name granted you by your choices? _

“I do.” The nameless _dov’s _eyes well with tears she doesn't wish to shed. She can't stop them; she feels their shame falls down her cheeks. 

_The Void offers a hand… In Sithis’ name… _Flames are closer now. She’s fading, even as the Night Mother's voice echoes in her mind. _Will you take it, child? _

“I will,” the _dov _whispers.

_Then you are worthy. _

“Lucien Lachance.” The heir of Sithis whispers and clenches her eyes shut. She doesn’t have the strength to say anything to him once the ghost is pulled into the realm of the living. His form feels strange and cold, without life, but she imagines it as an ethereal, flickering form. She feels him reach for her; he ignores her struggles and cries as his arms envelop her broken and battered form. She feels herself being lifted, hears the casket opening, and the touch of death press against her skin as she is pressed against the corpse of the Night Mother. Smells of preservatives and oils remind her faintly of a certain jester. The darkness calms instead of terrorizes, and the nameless _dov_ feels the ethereal warmth seep into her bones. Her pain fades once more and she rests.

As something pushes the casket unto its side, she hears the Night Mother’s voice whisper in her ear, _Sahkriimir, sweet child of mine… You are of the darkness now. _


	34. what she finds is remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a new age begins for the survivors of the dark brotherhood. the night mother reminds her listener a contract must be completed.

_Police have announced the downtown Seattle area is no longer under lockdown. The news comes shortly after reports that police officers have successfully apprehended thirty-four-year-old Seamus Holmes, wanted in connection to the murder of his wife, twenty-nine-year-old Sloan Holmes. Sloan was found unconscious and bleeding in the two’s shared apartment two months ago. She was taken by ambulance to Harborview Medical Center and later transferred to Virginia Mason Hospital where she succumbed to her injuries. Seattle Chief of Police Cameron Berst is expected to hold a press conference on the arrest in the evening after county morticians finish placing the body of Sloan Holmes back inside her apartment. A resident of the Holmes’ apartment complex, who identified himself by the name Dervenin, mentioned the arrest “was a long time coming” and that he is “glad this chapter of the story has ended.” When King 5 asked for additional comment, Dervenin laughed and mentioned, “Tendrils of thought may wind their way through this realm, but those tendrils bind our reality together.” Other residents did not provide comments but stood outside their doors unblinking and horrified until King 5 agreed to stop stalking them. More at six this evening…_

The casket encloses her. She knows it is the unholy matron’s embrace, for no other would dare imitate the Night Mother’s form of comfort. Chilling dead arms press against her form and her fears and anxieties wash away. She inhales the aroma of preservatives, the scent of herbs, and the gleaming, sauntering smell of oils. She thinks of Cicero and Veezara, two drastically different individuals, and how they have ironically come to terms with the same job of oiling and tending Mother. Though Cicero is _officially _Keeper, she knows that Veezara has handled the job smoothly in over a year Cicero was run off from Falkreath’s sanctuary.

It’s a nice series of thoughts, much like those of the black-and-red figure who she often imagines waltzing across Skyrim in thick Daedric armor. The plated suit of metal is always enchanted with vicious red Daedra magic. The suit always contours to the Daedra Lord’s body type, to ensure a crisp and accentuating fit. It’s intentional for many individual’s eyes; she knows she is not the only one who has her eyes set on the Daedra. But her mind is open to relationships that are not always seen as conventional; she finds herself at peace with the idea of him scurrying around and causing trouble in other mortal’s beds.

Then there is her _dov_. Her lovely, lovely _dov_. The two share a connection that cannot be summed in simple words. Not even the grand and imposing _dovah _tongue can convey what her other half is to her. Zaammeytiid is perhaps the strangest partner a Dragonborn could ask for. Not that she asks, nor does she call, or answer, or receive much beyond the _dov_’s roars and snarls and grunts, but she thinks it’s okay anyways. The _dov _has demonstrated she can change and grow; it is as good a starting place as anything else.

_Sahkriimir. _The name is spoken in a calm whisper to her ears, and she listens, for she is the Listener.

_Mother. Who is this you speak of? _The Listener requests the answer with a humble, calm voice. She is but a mortal who seeks to serve. The Night Mother talking to her at all is an honor she cannot thank her enough for. _Who is Sahkriimir? _

_Phantom. Kill. Allegiance. _The Night Mother intones.

That is all Kara is given before she feels the casket shifts. She doesn’t know how long she’s been in there, or what’s gone on outside. Her memories are cut off at the point she stumbled into the Night Mother’s sanctuary, where Ondolemar held Astrid by the throat and… She remembers, and she shudders at the thought of what the woman experienced prior to her and Babette’s arrival. She frowns when the casket is shifted upright; she tries to shift herself to cover the Night Mother’s corpse. If thieves have discovered the two, she intends to defend her unholy matron to the death.

But the casket does not open to thieves. It opens to a soot-stained, gray-skinned woman. Her eyes are dark but wide and glossy. Her mouth is parted into a sharp frown. When she sees Kara’s crumpled figure in the casket, she gasps and reaches for her. The Dragonborn feels pain erupt _everywhere _and she hisses her protest as the dunmer gently pulls her from the Night Mother’s coffin and lays her down. Kara does not recognize where she is at first, but the realization that she is just outside the ruined, caved-in sanctuary is emotional enough to bring tears to her eyes. Then she sees Gabriella, and she begins to cry all over again. Dunmer and Dragonborn alike hug each other, with Kara initiating it in spite of the pain.

They sit for a long time like that. Gabriella’s arms feel so right and warm. Kara still doesn’t know if she’s really a vampire or just a dunmer but she doesn’t care as long as Gabriella is alive or u-alive or whatever term she might think of later to describe a still-existing vampire. The Dragonborn feels Gabriella’s hand gently go to her head. Gold light erupts and Kara gasps at the feeling of scalp injuries healing over and being righted.

“It won’t replace the hair follicles. But I can show you a trick to do comb-overs?” Gabriella blurts out and the two women begin to cry again. This time, Gabriella slowly applies precise restoration magic across the Dragonborn’s mangled form. To her thigh, her back, and her gut—Gabriella slowly mends the flesh until her magicka pools are out and she’s forced to stop.

It’s such a better job than Babette that Kara wants to cry tears of laughter. The three-hundred vampire knows _nothing _of restoration beyond the basics, but thinking of the vampire’s willingness to help is enough in her book to not bug Babette about it later. The Dragonborn exhales sharply and makes to stand when Gabriella’s hand grabs her own and squeezes it. Kara’s face flushes with heat.

“Yes?” The Listener asks softly.

Gabriella stands with her. Her cheeks are tear-streaked. She’s been crying longer than before finding the Dragonborn and Night Mother. “Festus is dead. Twenty-arrows, to the heart.”

“Oh.” Is all the Listener can utter. _I failed him. _

“Leorn is dead. I found part of his skull and face. The rest of him is crushed under rubble.” Gabriella breathes and exhales. Her sly and upbeat composure is a mess as she continues, “Alysoin—Alysoin didn’t make it. Out of Solitude. They took her—I couldn’t—They took her to the square—They—” She cannot finish.

Kara draws Gabriella close. The dunmer sobs into the Dragonborn’s shoulder. It’s another long time before either can dare to breathe. When Gabriella draws back, she stares at Kara with such joy and longing and grief that the Dragonborn is left speechless at what to say or do.

“I can’t find the others. I can’t find their bodies. I don’t know if this means they made it—Or—Something worse,” Gabriella shakes her head. “What do we do now, Listener? The Brotherhood is ruined. We may be the only two left.”

“No, “ Kara moves her hands slowly to Gabriella’s shoulders. In the past, it has been the other way around with Gabriella cheering her up or offering words of encouragement. Kara refuses to not do the same for the woman. When Gabriella doesn’t look at her, she takes a habit of Sanguine’s and uses one hand to gently coax the dunmer’s gaze up to her own. “Dawnstar. They’ve gone to Dawnstar. We have to take the Night Mother to Dawnstar.”

“How are you so sure? Look around—" Gabriella whispers. “They sent hundreds.”

“I sent a _dov_,” the Dragonborn bites her lip. She can spy streaks of charred ground and burnt ashes. “Odahviing. He was here for a time—He helped repel some of the ground forces. I’m not sure what that means to you, but you have to trust me, Gabriella. Trust me as your Listener. Many things won’t make sense—But we have to go to Dawnstar, and we have to hurry. We can’t risk the Night Mother falling into the wrong hands!”

She’s relieved when Gabriella gives a nod. For a moment, Kara’s hand falls to the woman’s hairlne and she repeats a gesture she’s done to Cicero in the past. She slowly brushes stray strands of hair away from Gabriella’s forehead, and tucks them behind one gray ear.

“The Brotherhood will rise again. No matter what happens to us.” The Listener states.

“I don’t want us finding unicorns,” Gabriella comments, and it’s just out-of-the-blue enough for both woman to chuckle. The dunmer looks away. “We need a cart. I’ve checked the area.”

“How long?” The Listener pauses. She meets Gabriella’s eyes. “How long since—Since Solitude?”

“I stole a horse, ran the rest of the way. Two days, perhaps, since the assassination failed?” Gabriella frowns. “Have you been in there all this time?”

“Our unholy matron found my time to join others in the Void to not be now. I have things left to do with this life. A World-Eater to destroy. Small things, you know? Nothing important.” The Dragonborn feels good about making light banter as both Dragonborn and dunmer begin to scavenge the landscape.

Gabriella is the one to locate a cart and horse. She finds a farm two miles north of Falkreath. According to her, the farmers live, but the horse is an old mare Gabriella dubs ‘Listwo’ and doesn’t seem to be the best for long travels. Listwo doesn’t do much beyond wait idly for the two to finish loading the Night Mother’s casket into the bed of the cart. Kara thanks her again for finding the horse and cart as they set off. It’s a grueling and nerve-wracking process; neither know what to expect from the roads and wilds of Skyrim. On one occasion, the Dragonborn is forced into combat and made to shout a _dov _into submission after one dives for Listwo’s not-meaty back.

They spend five days slowly trekking to Dawnstar, and another day maneuvering the outskirts of Dawnstar’s northeastern wildlands. Zaammeytiid remains quiet in Kara’s head as she and Gabriella find the coastline. The Listener shouts for Gabriella to stop and she jumps off the cart. The waves are a beautiful mess of foam and the Listener can’t resist taking her shoes off and letting cold ocean waves wash against her grimy feet.

“Gabriella, you must try this!” Kara calls over her shoulder. She only has a moment before Gabriella shoves her face-first into the shallows.

The dunmer’s laugh is beautiful enough for her not to be angry. She only laughs, too, and the two remain that way with one lacking shoes and the other a filthy, soot-covered mess up to the point they hear a voice.

“Kara.” The Dragonborn and Gabriella both snap at the sound, with Gabriella instinctively going to the Night Mother’s casket while the Listener steps forward in front of the cart and grabs an ebony dagger from a sheathe at her waist. Kara’s eyes widen at the man whom the voice belongs to; the man is thinner than they last saw him, not by much but enough to make a noticeable difference. His hair is thin and white and freely falling around him.

_Arnbjorn. _

_“Laas,” _The Listener calls to confirm no other Dark Brotherhood in the vicinity. She frowns at Arnbjorn but gestures at Gabriella for both to put away their weapons.

Arnbjorn has a hatchet strapped to a belt around his waist. He’s out of his shrouded uniform and looks surprisingly normal for a werewolf when in citizenry tunics. He holds a bundle of firewood and sticks, presumably for tinder.

“You’re alive.” Arnbjorn repeats. “Lambstick. Gabriella.”

“How are you alive? Solitude was a _trap! _A trap! Alysoin’s dead!” The dunmer shouts from the wagon. Her voice is full of bitterness. “Leorn and Festus—All three of them! Dead, gone, finished! Don’t stand there calling names, meathead! What in Oblivion happened!?”

“We need to get inside,” Arnbjorn grunts and looks from Gabriella to the Listener. “C’mon.”

“That’s not an explanation!” Gabriella sighs.

They manage to get Listwo to the Black Door of Dawnstar’s sanctuary with a little effort and a lot of pushing. Gabriella _refuses _to let Listwo _not _go into the sanctuary, and Arnbjorn relents after a moment of cold, empty stares from the former. The horse doesn’t seem to mind trodding inside. No sooner than Listwo is through the door does Babette’s voice scream out, “Why is a _horse_ eating my _nirnroot? _Those are expensive, rare, and—No, not my dragon’s tongue! Shoo, shoo!”

Even Arnbjorn manages a humored snort. He ducks inside and the two woman follow after pulling the cart into the sea and letting the waves take it. Gabriella goes first; the Listener follows behind her. Dawnstar sanctuary opens up around them and both stare in surprise. It’s the first time Kara has seen it as _Kara_, as Zaammeytiid is the only one who has visited it in the past. She sees the entrance chamber connect to sneaky corridors and tunnels that branch out or go deeper into the earth. Down the leftmost tunnel, a training room. Directly down the front stairs is an armory, with a surprisingly well-lit ice cave opening into it for some reason. A short corridor right bends around a corner and enters into a dining hall that the entrance chamber overlooks by a special sliding wall.

Listwo nibbles on Babette’s plants in the farthest corner of the dining hall, where the darkness hides several alcoves of ingredients she’s unpacked and delivered. The horse doesn’t seem bothered by the placement of things.

A familiar Redguard grins and claps once he catches sight of Gabriella and the Listener. Nazir smiles proudly and nods at the two, “Go on, take a seat! We’re just about there—Arnbjorn! Get your ass in here with that wood! I need a bigger fire for the venison’s spit or it’ll never be done and you’ll go hungry!”

“What does that mean?” The Dragonborn frowns at Gabriella. The latter shrugs.

“I would say it’s good to see you two here—But you brought _this animal_,” Babette’s small figure is too entirely pissed off for both not to smile at. The vampire squints and eyes Kara accusingly. “Was this your idea, Listener? It was not a very good one.”

“Mine, actually. I thought it was a unicorn.” And all three wind up laughing or snorting or chuckling in some way.

Nazir sets down his cooking utensils in favor of pots and pans. He begins to bang them together and shout, “All to dining hall! To dining hall!”

“We should move the Night Mother to wherever Cicero decided she goes in this sanctuary.” The Dragonborn frowns. “Before we eat—”

“Oh, Sithis, do not get Cicero started on that. The man’s been blabbing nonstop and squabbling with Veezara about where to put the Night Mother when she arrives. Nonstop! Hours of back-and-forth, rudimentary debates, name-calling and dances! _Dances!_ I don’t understand why…” Babette’s voice trails off.

Kara turns around. She finds herself staring at a woman she formerly found intimidating, formerly felt anger for, formerly felt… Many things. The Dragonborn frowns at the sight of Astrid in commoner clothes. The Nordic woman is dressed in a loose brown dress with long sleeves and an apron in the front. Astrid’s eyes do not meet hers but when she pushes past Kara, the latter grabs her wrist and says, “Astrid—Wait.”

The entire dining hall goes quiet.

The Listener’s eyes are full of hurt, of many different kinds of hurts. Arnbjorn keeps a sharp gaze on her from where he stands, wood-in-hand and ready to be shoved under a cooking spit when prompted.

_Let me. _Her _dov _says. The brand is gone; she doesn’t know how or when but in retrospect—she imagines Festus’ death contributes to its absence.

Kara holds her breath and allows the _dov _to take over.

Sahkriimir’s expression is different. The change is noticeable; the Listener’s body posture shifts to a more rigid, upright stature without a hint of fear. There’s an underlying confidence befitting a _dov _to the woman’s actions. She keeps her grip iron-clad on Astrid’s wrist as Sahkriimir stares the traitor of the Dark Brotherhood down in the eye and states, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sahkriimir releases her, finds a seat, and sits. She glances at Gabriella in confusion when the dunmer sits next to her. Astrid doesn’t move from where she stands; the woman’s eyes fall on Sahkriimir and the former leader questions loudly—

“How can you say that?”

“Because I want to,” the _dov _answers with a huff. “What do you want me to say? You’re an insufferable bitch and I hope you get thrown in Thalmor prison? I’m not,” and she almost says _you _but she catches her tongue and shakes her head. “I’m not… I’m not going to say that. Because—Because the Brotherhood has lost enough lives as it is. We’re supposed to be a dark _family_.”

“The _dov _is right.” It is the voice of a Saxhleel, calm if not relieved, that comes through as he rounds the corner and strides to the table. He sits on the end, far from Sahkriimir but near enough to offer input. “Are we not a family, Astrid? This family has fought enough, Sister. I do not know the loss you experienced—But we should be here to support you. Not throw you to the wolves.”

“I lied to you. To all of you.” The woman whispers. “Leorn and Alysoin and Festus—Their blood is on my hands.”

“Sure is,” Sahkriimir frowns. “We will determine your punishment later, after the Night Mother is properly placed and—”

“The Night Mother is here?” Veezara sits upright, shoves his chair back, and looks around. _“Where? _I need to move her before—_”_

“Cicero has tended to our dear, lovely Mother, calm Veezara—You have _nothing_ to worry about! Lovely, lively Cicero is _certain_ calm Veezara will come to appreciate the sanctuary chosen for Mother!” The jester’s declaration is _triumphant. _Babette snorts and Nazir laughs. Arnbjorn walks to his wife and presses a kiss to her forehead, though Astrid's gaze remains locked on Sahkriimar.

It hasn’t been long, but Cicero seems so energetic and different compared to when they last had a chance to speak. That was back when she was Zaammeytiid, the slave of time, and not _Sahkriimiir, _the one whose allegiance rests as a killing phantom, an agent of Sithis and follower of the Night Mother. She can’t help but wonder if her new name has disturbed the cosmic rift of Cicero and her having a very weird, very back-and-forth, _begrudging _relationship that mostly consists of her putting up with him and him finding ways to make her enjoy herself.

“Thank you,” Astrid’s words are quiet but sincere. The woman keeps her gaze averted as she takes Arnbjorn’s hands and the two sit at the end of the dining table, together. Sahkriimar notes they look comfortable in civilian clothes. Both look like they've healed well, likely thanks to Babette's magic or potions.

The venison takes twenty-minutes longer to finish than normal and Nazir blames it entirely on Arnbjorn taking too long to get wood. The two men squabble a moment before Babette threatens to make them shovel Listwo’s eventual poop. And Listwo _does _poop and the two men argue back-and-forth again like kids over who _has _to clean up Gabriella’s new pet horse. Gabriella offers an apologetic smile to the Listener. Astrid excuses herself after her meal but she lingers long enough for Arnbjorn to finish poop-cleaning while Veezara shakes his head at the audacity of it all. The Dark Brotherhood family is reunited, save the loss of three siblings. Sahkriimar finds a moment to slip away from everyone and wander the sanctuary to find the Night Mother.

The ethereal pull calls her to a chamber deeper than any other room in the sanctuary. It’s a sanctuary in of itself, a tiny alcove tucked within a grandiose chamber one walks down a long, straight corridor to reach. She finds herself entering a great oval room with candles that reek of _elf flesh _in smell, yet which hold beautiful, gleaming flames. Banners of the Dark Brotherhood’s bloody handprint emblem are strung majestically across the walls. The casket of the Night Mother is posed on a raised platform of fine-chiseled granite. The corpse is open to view; dozens of oil jars and preservatives are arranged in neat rows along the ground in one corner of the room.

“Zaammeytiid!” _He_ pulls her into a dance before she can respond. The black-and-red motley is a mess of hasty steps as she growls in surprise, but the dance begins. The _dov _frowns and focuses on her steps until she’s certain she can do the routine in her sleep. Her lack of fumbles and trips appeases the jester and he grins. Cicero continues dancing, pulling her along and keeping her on her toes for any new events he might have in store.

As the two dance around the chamber, the _dov _has something click in her mind and she frowns. “That’s not right.”

“What is not right? Silly Listener’s dance moves?” The jester raises both brows and huffs. “Poor Cicero has waited _forever _to dance again—When calm Veezara showed up and began babbling _the_ binding words, silly Cicero thought Listener had died and the Shadowscale was made new Listener!”

“No, not—Did that really happen? _Mey,_ I do not die easily,” She frowns. She still can’t read him, especially when dancing. She comes to a sudden stop and eyes him. “No, my name. It’s not my name anymore. Do not call me Zaammeytiid.”

“Oh?” And the motley-wearing man—his motley never changes, the one constant in the whirlwind that is Cicero—moves around her in a shuffling act she’s seen once more. “What is it now, silly Listener? What could be as lovely as sweet, lovely Zaammeytiid?”

“Sahkriimar.” The _dov _crosses her arms. “It means Phantom-Kill-Allegiance. I,” and for a moment she pauses and wonders if it’s okay to share, like the Night Mother might throw her away if she talks to the damn _Keeper _about _Brotherhood _things. She grits her teeth. “The sanctuary in Falkreath was attacked. I almost died. I disavowed my former god, Alduin, and pledged myself to Sithis and the Night Mother. And she—She named me Sahkriimar.”

Cicero’s eyes are bigger than plates, surely. She averts her gaze.

“Silly Listener was given a name by Mother? A name of death? Of the darkness?” The man’s voice is softer than usual.

“I guess you could call it that—” And the rest of the sentence goes out the window because the man who is sometimes a jester, and sometimes an assassin, and often times _both,_ practically throws himself at her and wraps her in his arms. He picks her by the waist, spins them around, and laughs all the while. She fidgets and stares nervously—by Sithis, a _dov _should not get nervous—at him when he sets her back down. “What was that about, _joor_?”

“What parts of it mean what? What part of it is _kill, kill, kill?” _The jester sways with her in his grasp. He rests his forehead on hers and breathes slowly. “It’s the most beautiful part—_kill, kill, kill—_poor Cicero does not know how to convey his appreciation for Listener’s lovely name!”

Sahkriimar tilts her head to one side. _“’Krii’_ means kill, jester. _‘Sah’_ means phantom. And _‘mar’_ means—”

“Allegiance, yes, of course, allegiance to our Night Mother, our unholy matron, the Dread Father, Sithis himself! Of course, of course, _of course _Cicero knows that!” The Imperial man steals a kiss before backing away and bowing. “Cicero is learning many things today. Things already known but _not _known! Things like _kill, kill, kill _and _allegiance _but in a tongue not his own, see? Shee thish?” When he sticks out his tongue and jabs it with a finger, she snorts at him.

_“Mey, _that was obvious.” The _dov _woman states. She glances at the Night Mother’s casket and turns back to him. “How did you move our matron here so quickly? My _dovahkiin _arrived with Gabriella earlier—But it was not long before they found everyone in the dining hall. Veezara joined us to eat. You are not strong enough to lift this casket on your own.”

“Lucien Lachance!” The Imperial takes another bow and spins. He slides up to her side and takes her hand. He’s delighted when she lets him spin her, and he continues, “I called the name of our Brother from the Void! Oh, ho, the Void _did _answer, for Cicero is a child of the darkness and Mother blesses him with the knowledge of our Brother! Our Void sibling helped poor Cicero move Mother into her new home. Is this not dark? Dry? Ominous? Cicero has excelled at his role of Keeper, for Mother can be kept and worshipped and adored even better here than ever before!”

“The spirit. You too can summon the _zii_.” Sahkriimar cracks a wholly foolish smile. She can’t help herself, even if it is terribly _joor _of her to do. “Of course, you are Keeper, _joor_, not simply a _mey _who runs around in a jester’s motley for fun.”

“Cicero would never do something so silly.”

“Mm,” the _dov _woman snorts again. “I don’t understand you, _dii mey. _How are you okay with the events of the past year? You were kept far from your duties, abandoned by family, and left alone in this place.”

In spite her light tone, the jester stiffens at the remarks. His eyes become dark and he wrings his wrists and turns from her. It’s the only time Sahkriimar can recall the fool doing so—and she knows he’s aware of how foolish it is to show ones back to a _dov, _a dragon—and it gives her reason to pause. She lowers her hands to her sides and stares at him. For a moment, neither speak. The unspoken challenge of being the first to cross a bridge she unknowingly stirred up becomes evident. Cicero becomes the first to speak; his voice is that of jester, of killer, of fool, as he talks in a low, melancholy tone.

“It is not the first time I have been alone. Foolish, foolish Cicero knows how sanctuaries fall and families die. Cicero was alone a long, long time—Taking care of Mother, obeying, praying, hoping and dancing, dancing, dancing! So much dancing!” He smiles faintly, the expression is caught by Sahkriimar when she observes him turn and sway and dance as if he holds an invisible partner in his hands. “Oh, kindly, dancing stranger—Cicero was so struck! So sad! So pitiful he had to kill her! The first person to dance a dance in many years! But she spoke the binding words! She told Cicero Mother chose her as Listener! And everything… was nice.”

It’s the assassin speaking again. He stops in his dancing and pulls out an ebony blade to twist and play with in his hands. “I had a family again. It was not a family of tradition. Astrid had forsaken the tenets. Pretended to be a pretender, oh, ho, ho, ho—” The jester croons and laughs and holds his sides, knife still in hand and narrowly missing stabbing his own gut. “—But no, no, no pretender can rule too long! Too long to rule, too long to reign—The pretender failed at her own game!” The man begins tossing the knife into the air and catching it with the flat of the blade’s side between two fingers. It makes Sahkriimar stare.

_He’s a real assassin. Behind his cap, his smiles, his jokes. _She watches the blade as it is tossed, tossed, tossed and caught, caught, caught. The precision and skill is marvelous to witness and leaves her nigh-humbled.

“Sure, poor, foolish, _madman _Cicero got _run out _of the sanctuary! But no, no matter! The Listener chose him, chose Mother, yes? The Listener promised things would be okay! Things would resolve! Mother would be okay! And Cicero…” The dagger he’s thrown up and down crashes to the ground as he pauses and ignores it. His eyes soften. He looks from the Night Mother to Sahkriimar. “It is not the first time I have been alone. I was willing to wait,” he takes a step to her, and another, until the two—of fairly even heights—are close enough for her to see everything glint hidden in his eyes. “I had a feeling in my gut, _Sahkriimar, my _Listener, that you are not a liar. That my duties as Keeper were not over. That the unholy matron was tended to until time came for her to arrive here, to her new home. I was willing to wait for you—”

He leans down and she stiffens. Her breath catches in her throat but she doesn’t feel the man press warm, bloodthirsty lips to her own.

Instead, he moves to her ear and lets his breath fan it as the assassin states, _“—Sah-Krii-Mar.”_

She’s annoyed and ashamed at her own reaction, squawking and staring in shock at how arousing it is to hear the name spoken like that. The blush spreads from the tips of her toes to the corners of her face. She swallows and watches him draw back with a wicked smile that slowly shifts and melts into a merry one. The jester eyes her with a twinkle in his eyes befitting only him, truly, but by that point she’s snapped out of the stupor. The frustration inside her chest churns and simmers but she holds her tongue and stares him down with the stubbornness of a _dov_. He’s only her _hypothetical mate_, not a true one, she reminds herself.

“I’m not human, _joor.” _The _dov _snarls.

“Mortals do not have a single hint of nonsense to do with the here and now,” is the jester’s response. He adjusts his hat, turns, and walks to pick up his ebony blade. _“Stab, stab, stab,_ is all the blade begs! But Cicero has _self-control _and stabs are for blood and guts and elves, not for _Dark Brotherhood!_ Cicero told you the tale of a story of how Cicero waits and waits and _waits_, so give poor Cicero a break for telling you what you ask for!”

“What did I ask for?” The Dragonborn blinks. She can feel her _dov _apologetically snap at her as the latter recedes into the depths of the two’s souls. The Listener crosses her arms and looks around the sanctuary. She exhales sharply and looks around. “—This is beautiful, Keeper. Did you do all this? Mother must be pleased.”

“Ho, ho, sly Cicero keeps his secrets to himself!” The jester skips and hops to her and is by her side in seconds. He takes a grand bow and offers her his hand. She accepts and is pulled into a lovely dance that isn’t quite a waltz but is close enough for his smile to light up his face and reveal how jubilant he is at her presence.

She’s happy, too. Kara has not had a proper word with the man in a long time. She grins ear-to-ear and lets the two’s familiar routine fall naturally into place. Though her steps are a bit off and at times she fumbles the movements, Cicero is a patient partner and puts up with her nonsense. The two’s dance comes to a halt not when either fall or mess-up, but when an ethereal voice stretches to the Listener from the Night Mother’s casket. A cold peace washes over the Listener and she comes to an abrupt stop.

_Sweet child. The contract is written is blood… The death of Emperor Titus Mede II rests on your shoulders. _

“Mother.” The Listener breathes. She feels the Keeper release her and step back, giving her and the unholy matron space for the commune. The Listener strides up to the casket and falls to her knees before it, bowing her head and opening herself to hear all the Night Mother has to say. “I am Listening, my matron.”

_You will find the Katariah docked off the shores of Solitude. The Emperor lives and breathes another day. But a contract was formed. It is sealed in blood. The Dark Brotherhood must fulfill their oath to the deed. _

“Yes, Mother.” The Listener’s eyes open. She stands.

As she walks away from the Night Mother’s crypt, with the Keeper at her side, her eyes narrow and she states. “Gather our siblings. Our brothers, our sisters. Tell them the Listener commands it. We must speak as one and move forward under our Mother’s words.”

“Yes, my Listener!” The jester is _giddy _at the order.

Ten minutes later, in the entrance chamber, the entire Brotherhood is gathered as one. The Keeper stands to the side and the Listener makes her way to the center of the room where she turns to face the rest of her family with dark eyes and a smile that could kill a person where they stood. She counts the faces: _Arnbjorn, Astrid, Babette, Gabriella, Veezara, Nazir, Cicero… Seven compared to two. The Dark Brotherhood dies but it also lives. We are not yet extinguished. _

“Why do you stand up there, meatstick?” Arnbjorn asks the first question.

“I am your Listener. Falkreath was Astrid’s sanctuary, but in Dawnstar we embrace our traditions and strive to return to the way the Dark Brotherhood operated across Tamriel long ago. That includes the reintroduction of the five tenets.” The Listener straightens upright and crosses her arms. Her eyes rest on Arnbjorn’s figure, the man still in civilian clothes, and when he doesn’t say anything she continues. “First tenet, Arnbjorn. _Do not disrespect the Night Mother. _To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. And if Sithis requests—I will not hesitate to draw my blade and deliver these punishments myself!”

The Dark Brotherhood falls quiet. Babette smiles and nods at the suggestion, thoroughly enjoying the idea of it.

“Second tenet: Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or reveal its secrets. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis,” the Listener breathes. “Falkreath fell to lies and mistrust! Three of our siblings bled because of betrayals! It ends now! I will cut the throat of anyone who turns against us from here on out. Understand?” She feels her _dov _compel an extra bite to the tone of the question. The Listener’s form if rigid and demanding of authority, of respect as she scans the heads in the room.

Astrid averts her gaze. Arnbjorn’s eyes narrows.

“Third tenet. Arnbjorn!” The Listener snaps at the werewolf. “Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior! To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. As your Listener, Arnbjorn, I hold rank above you. In fact—I am the highest-ranking member here, with Cicero below me. The Night Mother speaks through me to all of you and you listen. If you did not believe that,” the Listener tilts her head. _“You_ would have skipped this meeting.”

The eyes of the werewolf hold a furious shame. The Listener ignores him and redirects her gaze to the group as a whole.

“Fourth tenet: Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brotherhood sibling. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis,” the Listener speaks in a calmer tone, now. “Fifth tenet: Never kill a Dark Brotherhood sibling. To do so is to invoke the wrath of Sithis. Are these tenets clear, my Dark family? It has been forthcoming we return to tradition, but now Falkreath is _gone_. We are all that is left of the Dark Brotherhood across Tamriel. It is time for us to begin rebuilding the legacy our former siblings left for us. The legacy that lingers in the form of these tenets, our Night Mother, and _Lucien Lachance!”_

She speaks the name to call the specter from the Void and into the world of the living. The ghost rises from the ground with unorthodox body movements. When he straightens up, Lucien Lachence stares at the group and keeps to the Listener’s side. His gaze is unblinking and dead. The ethereal form of a steel dagger is held in one hand.

“Speaker Lucien will help us. He knows the old ways of the Dark Brotherhood, the ways of a time none of us, save Babette, were alive for.” She narrows her eyes on Astrid. “But before we move forward, before we accept our return to tradition, sins must be atoned for.”

Arnbjorn’s eyes flash but Astrid moves a hand to her husband’s arm. The blond-haired woman exhales sharply and grits her teeth. “It’s fine. It’s fine. She’s not going to kill me.”

“But I may, my Sister.” Lucien intones. He wears a thin smile, scarcely visible, but it is caught by the Listener.

The Listener holds an arm between the spectral figure and the rest of the Dark Brotherhood. Her eyes narrow. “Astrid. _Sister. _Your actions have broken tenets of the Dark Brotherhood. You have disrespected our unholy matron. You have gone behind the backs of individuals here and sold your siblings out to the Thalmor and Penitas Oculatus, both a year ago and _now_.”

“I will attest to that.” Babette stands and brushes her skirt off. She catches the Listener’s gaze and nods. “The Thalmor—When we found Astrid in the depths of Falkreath’s sanctuary—He said, _‘You thought we would help get you out?’_ Given the circumstances of this conversation, I believe Astrid is responsible for allowing the Thalmor and Penitas Oculatus members access to the sanctuary. It is likely she is the one who turned us over to the Empire and allowed the deaths of three siblings to happen.”

The atmosphere in the room changes from stunned to _furious._ Cicero holds back a hum. The Listener roars at the group to _silence themselves _and the Brotherhood obeys, falling short of all words to comply with the reestablished tenets.

“Astrid. Sister. What do you say in your defense?” The Listener demands an answer. Her fangs are bared in grit teeth and dark looks.

The Nord bows her head. She exhales slowly. “…I am guilty. Listener.”

“You are guilty." Lucien speaks the verdict aloud. "What is the punishment?"

The Listener knows she can call for her death. It is the appropriate punishment for the heinous actions. She feels compelled to, in part, for the weight of Leorn’s and Alysoin’s deaths have joined her shoulders with that of Filre’s. Her vows to protect the two, to give them a chance at a new family, to keep them safe, are all broken. She is guilty of failure for the two, of lying to herself when she thought she could protect them. But Astrid is guilty of the two’s blood. And if she wishes—She can call for it to spill.

No one will stop her.

“Astrid. You have been found responsible for the deaths of Festus Krex, Brother, Leorn Stillshine, Brother, and Alysoin, Sister. Your actions call for execution. Lucien,” and she lets the dead Speaker step forward and pull Astrid from her stunned husband. Astrid complies with the specter; the ghost takes her to Kara and makes her kneel before the Dragonborn. As Lucien raises the ethereal dagger, the Listener pauses. “A finger. For every death.”

“Yes, my Listener.” The specter doesn’t show annoyance. Astrid doesn’t have a chance to register the words before the blade comes down on her hand and three fingers on her left hand and a chunk of a fourth are sliced off. Blood pours and the woman screams and clutches her hand to her chest.

The Listener looks down at her. She seeks out Astrid’s eyes, full of tears and looking as vulnerable as she felt during her time imprisoned by Thalmor.

“We begin a new age of the Dark Brotherhood, Sister. Your sins are forgiven, for Sithis’ wrath is sated in the taking of blood and flesh. Your actions in the past do not reflect your person today. Do you accept the tenets?” The Listener breathes the words. She kneels, for she knows Astrid does not have the strength to stand or to speak more than a whisper. She stares the former Dark Brotherhood leader in the eyes, looking for any hint of anger or rage or fury that might indicate the action is a mistake, that might tell her she shouldn’t have let Astrid live.

What she finds is remorse.

“I do.” The former leader whispers.

The Listener stands. “Gabriella, Babette! Heal her, we do not lose another Sister tonight. We are not yet done, my family!” She shouts the word _family _with vigor. The Dragonborn’s form relaxes as she watches Arnbjorn help Astrid back to sit next to him. Gabriella’s healing hands and Babette’s minor restoration magic cast golden glows as they mend the nubs left on Astrid’s left hand.

“Emperor Titus Mede the II lives and breathes. This must not continue!” The Listener shouts her words across the entire chamber. She sees Cicero nod vigorously, Veezara tilt his head, and Lucien bow his head in respect for her statements. She grins ear-to-ear. “The Night Mother has spoken to me! And she reminded me of our oaths to blood, our right to the taking of life as called upon by Sithis and souls of the vengeful! She spoke of a ship, the Katariah, docked off the coast of Solitude! It is there we will find the soul Amound Motierre contracted in blood to send off to the Void! It is there the Dark Brotherhood’s legacy rises again! I will call the names of three of you. Those three will travel with me to Solitude and finish this contract. An emperor _will _fall to our blades!”

She inhales. The Night Mother did not give her names of individuals to take, and she did not tell her to take only herself.

“Veezara, Shadowscale, Brother.” She addresses him with a nod. He stands.

“Cicero, Keeper, Brother.” The Listener catches the jester’s clap and jig out of the corner of her eyes.

“Astrid,” the Listener breathes the last name and the woman’s head snaps up to look at her. She stares. “Speaker, Sister.”

Babette stiffens and Gabriella stares. Veezara sits upright and Cicero gawks but says nothing. Arnbjorn’s eyes narrow on the Listener again but he too holds back his tongue. Nazir throws his head back and lets out a long, sharp whistle, _“_By _Oblivion.”_

“Oblivion has nothing to do with it, for the Night Mother has not called her death. Sithis’ wrath is sated in the offering of her blood and flesh. She has failed as a leader before—But she is not leader now. She is of the Black Hand, a finger where I am the thumb, and our orders are absolute but split equally. Do you accept, Speaker?” The Listener calls to the woman again. Kara’s eyes lighten. “Astrid. Will you take the mantle of Speaker and accept the contract?”

Astrid looks at her husband. She shakes as she stands. She straightens and nods. “I accept, both as a Speaker, and as Sister, to slay Titus Mede the II.”

“The Night Mother allows it. So it will be.” Lucien shuts his eyes.

“Then the three are chosen, the contract continues. We leave tomorrow. Dawn,” the Listener exhales. “Don’t be late.”


	35. time is an artificial construct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the emperor must be killed; the contract is bound by blood and the dark brotherhood answers its call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some talking about  
infertility, forced abortion, child death / loss  
almost entirely at the beginning when astrid and kara talk

Come early morning, at the crack of dawn, three members of the Dark Brotherhood don skin-tight shrouded uniforms, pack bags of potions, poisons, rations, and daggers, and set off. The Listener possesses a bow and Daedric arrows, Veezara a short-sword alongside his daggers, Astrid her enchanted _Blade of Woe, _and Cicero only his ebony blades—outright rejecting the Daedric daggers offered for something more _classic_. It’s a sign of how the day will go; the group splits into pairs and each duo finds themselves stealing horses from Dawnstar’s stables. One person distracts, the other sneaks the horse off, and before the guards can think twice about why the Thane of Dawnstar and her bizarrely-dressed friend are babbling on about nirnroot extract _again_ two horses are seized and the two take off. They meet Veezara and Astrid at the other end of the town and ride across wilderness and snowy terrain in favor of avoiding Thalmor who surely continue lurking the main roads.

“They wouldn’t give up on me so easily.” Kara calls to the woman behind her. She feels Astrid tense. The two share a horse; Veezara and Cicero share the other horse and both duos are almost theatrical in how uncomfortable everyone else with the situation.

“I believe you.” The Speaker sitting behind her shifts and frowns. “Will they track us here?”

“At some point? Who knows. I would be a _mey _not to consider it,” She looks over in time to see Veezara—Sithis grant him many kills as he endures Cicero’s incessant tunes—and Cicero trot up to their horse’s side. She nods at them. “On our return trip, we’ll take a different route.”

“Listener! Lo-Lo-Lovely Listener! A question for you, a question for you!” Veezara cringes as the man behind him shouts in song.

Cicero is the only individual to not wear the Dark Brotherhood’s uniform, opting to remain in his colorful jester motley. If worse comes to worse—It will make Cicero a convincing distraction, what with having a jester fall over and around the place while they infiltrate the _Katariah._ The Listener’s smile grows at the thought. “A question for _me? _What is it, my Keeper?”

“What does _mey _mean?” It’s a question the woman laughs at.

She knows Astrid and Veezara don’t _quite _understand and frankly the Dragonborn is okay with it. She hums a delightful tune and thinks back, “What is it—What is it—Oh, yes, that’s right—It stands for _fool_. Much like you can be sometimes. A dancing fool, always full of smiles and daggers and stabs!”

“The best kind of fool, clearly.” How Veezara says the words with a poker face is beyond Kara.

“Stab, stab, stab!” Cicero hums the same tune as the Dragonborn. He adds after a time, “And _dii? _What is that in dragon tongue?”

“Ah, uh—I don’t use that one very often, hmmm,” the Dragonborn taps her chin and shrugs. “I think it stands for _mine_. I don’t fully understand how the linguistic side of _dovah _speech functions, but I imagine you could use it in other tenses. Like the word ‘my,’ perhaps? Does that answer your question?”

_“Dii mey!” _Cicero looks ready to jump off the horse and start into another song. The man doesn’t, and for that Kara is grateful given the sleep terrain their horses climb, but she knows Cicero a little too well not to whisper a warning back to Astrid to cover her ears. Sure enough, not a second later the jester has resumed his songs.

She doesn’t have a clue _why _two random words of _dovah _tongue throws him into such a cheerful mood, but it delights her to see him in a good mood. She’s never lost her soft spot for the jester, not since the time they met on a road with two broken wheels and _extremely _helpful farmers.

But she doesn’t let herself get too distracted. She turns her focus back to the task at hand and sends Veezara and Cicero on ahead to scout when they come across a particularly nasty pass between two peaks. The snow falls gently around her, Astrid, and the unnamed horse. The Listener pauses at the serenity of it all, like the past few weeks haven’t been a chaotic mess of Thalmor, Imperials, and the Brotherhood trying to best one another. She stiffens when she feels Astrid tap her shoulder. Kara looks back to meet the Nord’s eyes; Astrid’s expression is strangely reluctant and it gives her cause for concern.

“What?” The Listener asks. She directs her horse to the side while waiting for an answer.

“I’m sorry.”

The statement is spoken in a soft, feeble way that gives Kara a flashback to a world where she is a woman named _Sloan Holmes, _a retail worker of twenty-nine trying to survive her marriage and her job. She envisions a video game, a screen, and Astrid’s body laid out in a circle of candles. The Blade of Woe is at her side in that scene, and she looks at Sloan and begs her for death. _To release her spirit. The conversation when the player finds her body in the remains of Falkreath’s sanctuary. But that’s… another world now. _

“So very sorry,” the Nord woman repeats the words and looks away.

Kara climbs off the saddle and leads their horse by hand to a thicket of trees, which offers slight protection from the wind. She pulls two potions of resist frost from her pack and hands one to Astrid; both women swallow the potions and make faces at the repulsive taste.

“I know what you want to say, in part,” the Listener frowns and looks at the Speaker, the one _she _chose to lead the Dawnstar sanctuary during her times of absence. “You want to say something like, _‘He said by giving you to them he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone.’ _Maybe not those exact words, this isn’t an exact perfect playthrough given who is and isn’t alive.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, not entirely—”

“Good, it’s better that way. I have my quirks and you have yours. But if you’re just going to stand there and apologize then _don’t_,” The Listener pauses and glances at the snowy sky. “If you want to tell me something and have it be something I want to hear—Tell me why. Tell me why you betrayed the Falkreath Brotherhood.”

“I thought your _dov _would tell you—Or—You already figured it out.” Astrid climbs off the horse and pets its neck.

“I want to hear it from you.” The Listener says.

“I was pregnant,” the Nord woman shuts her eyes and exhales a visible cloud of hot breath against the chill of the snow. “Arnbjorn and I never had a kid—We talked about it, sure, but—But we didn’t think it was possible. Werewolves are _fertile_ with other werewolves. You see a lot of them outside of their own kind?” The woman shakes her head.

“—I imagine the Companions might have something to say about that.” Kara offers.

“Don’t mention them to my husband. He isn’t fond of the memories,” Astrid smiles halfway at the sentiment. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile that big. Or at all, really, when I told him.”

“How far along were you?” The Listener clears a place to sit on a haphazardly-fallen log, dusting off snow and ice crystals.

“I don’t know. The child wasn’t… human. We both thought they inherited Hircine’s _gift, _if that’s—If that’s even possible. But in retrospect—That is probably what kept me alive when they—” Astrid grits her teeth and wipes her eyes. It’s a vulnerable topic. It’s a topic she still grieves, and Kara cannot even begin to imagine how long she may grieve for. “—The child’s werewolf blood—The regenerative properties—I should have bled to death. Babette told me that for two days in Dawnstar. _I _didn’t know she knew restoration magic, but she told me—She told me she knew very little. Just enough to get her along when needed, not enough to save a person."

“She doesn’t like jumping off _dovah_ backs. Remind her to tell you that story sometime, that’s how I found out about her magic.” Kara offers a light-hearted comment to ease Astrid away from the painful topic, but to her surprise the Speaker chooses to continue.

“I should have died. I would have if you two didn’t show up. And everything would have been and was for nothing.” Astrid shakes her head. She growls in frustration. “I thought Arnbjorn and I could take our child and leave Skyrim. Go somewhere else, somewhere more _stable _to raise a kid. That’s what the Justicar and Commander Maro promised me in exchange for you and the Falkreath sanctuary password.”

“Ondolemar.” The Listener mumbles under breath. She doesn’t know how the man died, as _Sahkriimar _refuses to reveal the memories, but she firmly believes the world is better off without him.

“He didn’t ask for _you_ specifically. He wanted your _dov_.”

“I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Me too.” Astrid agrees softly and the two grow quiet a time, both gazing into the snow flurries.

Kara is the one to break the silence. She turns to Astrid and crosses her arms. “Over a year ago, Astrid, you sold me out to the Thalmor. The contract of Gaius Maro. Initially I wondered if some sort of conspiracy about the Thalmor funding both sides of the civil war was the explanation, but that was never the case. You gave them everything about me. My name, my spells, my thu’um, even—Sanguine. You told them I had a Daedra accompanying my travels and they came prepared with banishment spells and a brand with my name on it. That was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve had a lot of terrible days, Astrid, but that one _stung.” _

She doesn’t hide her frustration or anger or bitterness. Even the resentment briefly slips through the Listener’s composure, filtering out in narrowed brows and a harsh gaze. She averts her eyes from Astrid after a moment.

“—Then the Thalmor took my _dov _and I hostage and every _single day _after that was worse than the last.”

Astrid is quiet. She’s glad for it, because if the woman tries to defend herself Kara might scream loud enough for Cicero and Veezara to worry.

“If it wasn’t for my _dov_’s actions, her planning—I would still be property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, tools of Head Justicar Ondolemar and Interrogator Rulindil.” The Dragonborn shakes her head. “But that didn’t happen, did it? No. Because Zaa—_Sahkriimar,” _she corrects herself and pauses. “Sahkriimar found a way to play the elves’ game. She won. She got us out. She took us home. She eventually took me home, a year after our capture. But you couldn’t be happy with that. You couldn’t be happy with _us _being _back_. You pitted my Dark Family against me. Alysoin, Leorn—”

“I did,” the Nord acknowledges softly.

“That’s the last thing either of the two ever knew of me, Astrid. The sting of betrayal. Both in my back and in theirs. We will never get to sit and talk it out like you and I are now. They’re _dead_ and,” Kara grits her teeth and hisses. “I can’t even say sorry to them.”

Astrid’s eyes fall on hers. Kara meets the gaze with a cold stare.

“It’s not your fault—”

“I know that.” The Listener utters harshly. “I know it isn’t, but it sure damn feels that way sometimes.”

“Why did you ask me to be Speaker?” And the Nord woman opens a new can of worms, one the Dragonborn doesn’t want to think of but is forced through all the same.

“Because,” the Listener exhales in frustration and shakes her head. “Because there’s a good chance that the world is going to go horribly wrong at some point, Astrid. And you don’t understand why and I doubt you and Cicero and Veezara and all other members of the Dark Brotherhood ever will. But Daedric Princes keep _bullshitting _me and things don’t make sense and _I have to kill a God because that’s what the Dragonborn does. _That’s how this story goes!” She kicks a stick angrily. “After we kill the Emperor, I’m going to get contracts and leave to find a way to shove a Daedric dagger up Alduin’s heart. I don’t know if it will kill me. I don’t know if it will kill this world or restart it or anything else the Divines of this universe seem to think. I just… I don’t know.”

Kara growls again. She feels the negative emotions inside her boil and bubble and threaten to come crawling out. She turns away from Astrid and clenches her eyes shut. She focuses on her breathing. Her hands clench into red-white fists, tight and furious.

“I made you Speaker—Because,” the thirty-one-year-old states. “Because you are full of _mistakes _and _regret _and _remorse _and _change_. Because you have fucked up the Brotherhood in more ways than I can count and I _know how that feels. _Not in this life, or this world—But I know how it feels to live thinking you’re complete and utter trash, to live with choices you want to take back but can’t—And I _hate_ it. And I know you hate it, too! And I know we aren’t two peas in a pod or best friends or the caped crusaders all goody-goody two-shoes together! But—”

_We’re alive. _

_We’re here._

_I didn’t want you to die._

_I wanted all of us to live._

_I couldn’t save them._

_I saved you._

_I don’t regret it, Astrid._

“—We are members of the Dark Brotherhood, living heirs of Sithis, children of darkness under the Night Mother’s guidance. We’re not meant to _fight each other,_” The Speaker exhales and calms. She embraces the chills of icy gales whipping overhead, the dances of snowflakes as they drift through canopies and kiss her skin, she lets herself loose in the mess. “So—Let’s not do that. Let’s… Move on. You’re still a capable leader. You’ve realized your wrongs. You recognize you can’t change it. But just as I have changed my fate—So can and will you. You are Speaker, now, because I believe that.”

“I’m sorry—”

“By Mara and Akatosh and Jesus Christ of Nazareth, _don’t say that,_” Kara sighs.

“No, please, Listener, hear my words,” Astrid frowns. “I’m sorry. I felt threatened. By you, by Cicero, by the Night Mother! I was scared. I panicked. And I turned you over to the Thalmor like you were an animal. I resented you. But then the elves took you to the Embassy. They took you to a place we couldn’t follow.”

The Listener stiffens.

“Ask Veezara—Ask Gabriella—Ask Babette—We looked for you. We tried. We couldn’t get in.”

“You left me there.” Kara states quietly.

“We did.”

“You abandoned me. You carried on the contract I brought you, the one sent by the Night Mother herself.”

“I did.”

“It was awful.”

“It was,” Astrid bites her lip and reaches to pet the two’s horse again. “Like you said. I live with choices I regret but cannot take back. But now you know _why_, Kara. You’ve spoken to your Speaker. And I—I can’t express _sorry _in words, not when words mean nothing. But you’ll see. I give you my word,” and the woman draws her Blade of Woe, pulls off a glove with her teeth, and slices her palm open. “In the offering of blood, under Sithis’ name, I give you my word, Listener. To obey the tenets, to act in the will of the unholy matron. I will show you in actions where words fall.”

“A blood oath,” Kara whispers softly. “You stake your life on it? To take yourself to the Void if your actions waver and your words come undone?”

“To not do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.”

The Listener smiles faintly, weakly, at the saying. She feels tired and mentally drained. She allows _Sahkriimar _to take over and the _dov _opens her eyes to see Astrid wrap linen around a long laceration across one palm. Sahkriimar raises a brow but says nothing to the Speaker as she moves past and eyes the horse. “Horse the II. How fitting. Move back, Astrid.”

The blond-haired Nord does so without hesitation. Sahkriimar climbs unto the saddle, nudges the horse out of the thickets and into the snowstorm, and looks up at the sky. A grin settles on her as she shouts, _“Lok vah koor!” _

The shout of Spring, Summer, and Sky settles across the clouds and disperse them instantly. She hears Astrid exhale behind her but the _dov _woman doesn’t bother acknowledging it. Sahkriimar gestures for her to climb unto the horse. The two look up in time to hear Veezara’s and Cicero’s horse come trotting down from deeper within the pass. Both men look tired; Veezara takes a moment to acknowledge the _dov _at all where Cicero’s eyes grow big and gleeful. Sahkriimar doesn’t know why and she opts not to ask questions.

“Let’s move—Wherever it is we’re going, I imagine it isn’t anywhere close to here.” Sahkriimar huffs.

“Solitude, to finish Amound Motierre’s contract, _dov_.” Veezara shouts at her.

The Listener grins crookedly. “Oh? A shedding of blood! What a delightful surprise. Color me silly, I forgot we were all members of the Dark Brotherhood while Kara was here. I’m half-expecting us to give up on the whole thing and walk back with our tail between our legs.”

But Cicero—the bloody, damn jester who somehow shows up everywhere and at places she least expects—waves at the _dov _and tells Veezara to urge the horse to meet theirs saddleside. Sahkriimar stares at him with furrowed brows and a tense posture. The last time the two had a spontaneous conversation, Cicero the assassin was being spectacularly infuriating, alluring, and _beyond _inanely frustrating. She had thrown Kara out to him without second thought.

“_Mey, _out with it.” The _dov _states quickly, before things can veer out of her control again.

_“Dii mey,” _the jester’s laugh is positively sickly in how giggly it is. In Sahkriimar’s head, he sounds like a youth basking over knowledge of a crush. Cicero straightens up after a moment and he climbs back on the horse, whispers something to the Saxhleel present, and shouts at her. _“Dii dov!” _

_My fool…? My dragon? _She did _not _intend for him to learn the meaning of ‘dii.’ Nor did she intend for him to ever catch her slipping up in her own kin’s tongue! It’s an outrageous realization and accusation and _lots _of other words she can’t quite think of as color drains from the Listener’s face and she stares at the jester in utter _horror_. “That—That was an accident, _joor!” _

“Go, go, _go!”_ Cicero’s laughter trails as Veezara directs their horse away and into the pass.

“What in _Oblivion_ was that about?” Astrid mumbles behind her.

Sahkriimar doesn’t reply.

The _dov _woman tries and tries to force Kara back to the front over the course of the trip. Not even a night of sleep brings the woman to the surface of the two’s body. Sahkriimar finds herself increasingly more frustrated and flustered at the fact she’s flustered. Anytime the _bloody jester _so much looks at her she thinks of his voice saying her name word-by-word. Astrid and Veezara aren’t fools, but to her begrudging relief neither of the two say anything on the situation once they pick up what is going on.

They reach Solitude the evening of their third day of travel. The sight of the city’s walls and the docks connecting into the coast lower down the bank is a marvelous thing to witness. Even Sahkriimar can’t help but smile faintly at the docks and walls, knowing how soon she’ll be able to spill blood down the slopes of the coast and across Solitude’s cobbled roads. She pats the daggers strapped to her waist fondly. Thanks to the growing darkness, the group conceals most of their features and their outfits under travel cloaks as they arrange for their horses to be kept at local stables.

Astrid volunteers to check inside the town for extra information on the Katariah or guards; she makes a point of showing the spare citizen tunics she packed in her bag to convince the group to agree with her idea. She returns from the venture with a murderous gleam in her eyes; it is instantly picked up by Sahkriimar when Astrid rejoins the group in the dark shadows of thickets flanking the docks.

“Alysoin’s corpse is on display in the town square. They left her poised by the chopping block.” Astrid’s eyes yearn to bring the Dread Father offerings, that much is clear.

Sahkriimar averts her gaze. Cicero hums thoughtfully and Veezara’s body is tense enough to snap at the slightest move. The _dov _doesn’t doubt any of the individuals present could slaughter the Imperial army in a night with enough sleeping agents and a little luck. Not just the Imperial army—The entire Penitas Oculatus group in Solitude! Fillet them like salmon and string their entrails and leave them up for the Emperor to find, just like Astrid did with Alysoin in the city.

“Let’s not look.” Sahkriimar orders Cicero and Veezara. Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t know Alysoin as well as some individuals here—”

“Cicero did not know poor Alysoin at _all_—”

“But,” the _dov _woman grits her teeth, annoyed at the interruption. “I have too much respect for my _dovahkiin _to risk her seeing it. Kara will burn the city to the ground if she catches wind. I wouldn’t stop her, nor would I want to, and the only problem with delaying devastation is that we already have a _contract _to finish. One signed in blood.”

“I agree.” Veezara exhales and nods. “How are we infiltrating the _Katariah?”_

“Ooh, ooh! Pick Cicero! Pick Cicero!” The jester shoots up a hand and waves.

Sahkriimar relents. _“Yes,_ jester?”

“Boats like this, strange, traveling Cicero has seen many of them, yes, many! Many, many, many, big ones and long ones and strange ones and full ones. No soft ones, a boat is not _soft, _ho…” Cicero’s an Imperial, Sahkriimar realizes. She averts her gaze but he’s already caught sight of her initial stare and the assassin possesses a wicked grin when she looks back. “Anchors on the side—The boat must be anchored to the shore. Wait until nightfall and climb the chain onboard.”

“What if they raise the anchor? Realize intruders have boarded?” Astrid asks.

Cicero throws an arm around Veezara and shoves him forward, _“Argonian lungs!”_

“I could,” the Saxhleel considers each word very, very carefully. “Swim where the anchor sits underwater. If I bring weights—I can tie it down, make it harder for them to pull the anchor up and leave. It will give us more time if someone is seen or detected.”

“Us three board the ship? It’s a lot of soldiers onboard. The Penitas Oculatus are trained warriors with armor and weapons to match.

“No, us two.” Sahkriimar states. “Cicero, you stay on shore and assist Veezara.”

She almost feels bad—and she does, a tiny bit—because the man goes from happy, gleeful, and glad to a quiet motley mess. The _dov _woman is stubborn as can be but especially stubborn in this instance. Not even her innate _dov _call to submit and comply for her _hypothetical _mate can overrule this decision. She won’t let it. She’s not letting him anywhere near the Penitas Oculatus, _solely _to ensure his bloody jester bells don’t set off the guards. It has nothing to do with the fact she might worry about him, or about the fact he could be in actual danger if he stops mid-fight to dance.

“Yes, Listener.” Cicero the assassin gives the response; it’s curt and solemn.

In a way, it reminds her of Lucien Lachance’s ghost. She makes a note to not call upon him unless needed. She doesn’t know a ton about summoning the fellow child of darkness from the Void, but she imagines it might come in handy if an actual emergency pops up. Sahkriimar and Astrid split from Veezara and Cicero at approximately one in the morning. Veezara’s form disappears under the waves with stolen chains, and Cicero remains idle at the shore’s edge. Sahkriimar looks back as she and Astrid begin to swim out to the ship, and she swears she sees the jester staring at her.

_No, he definitely is. Mey, joor. _The _dov _woman ignores the thought and continues.

Astrid climbs up first. When the assassin throws her hand out over the side of the boat, Sahkriimar knows the show has begun. She pulls herself up and moves with the rhythm of the waves against the _Katariah_’s hull. The chain naturally flicks against the wooden ship due to the waves, and she nails the timing with no mistakes. Astrid helps pull her aboard and Sahkriimar immediately notices blood drops from the _Blade of Woe _at Astrid’s hip. She notices the dead sailors lying on the ground, throats cut. They are innocent to an extent, but their presence of the ship calls for their death.

Sahkriimar also doesn’t care much for whether or not a _joor _is innocent, only whether they are alive or dead.

The _dov _woman passes by the corpses with Astrid on her heels. The _Katariah _is a large, beautiful ship with a massive cabin jutting out from atop the back half. The two find a set of double-doors leading into what Sahkriimar assumes is the ship’s storage. A trap door on the ship’s topside hints at another entrance directly into the ships actual living quarters. Sahkriimar pulls Astrid aside and asks. “Together or alone?”

“Splitting up takes them out quicker,” Astrid pulls a potion of invisibility from her belt—and Sahkriimar knows she has because the potion has a certain notch on the rim of it’s tiny glass body—and uncaps it. “We return here in an hour if our paths don't cross?”

“I’ll see you then. Or Kara might. You never know where she’ll pop up,” the _dov _is half-serious as Astrid vanishes in front of her, concealed by the potion’s effects. Sahkriimar watches the invisible woman pull the trapdoor—to her it looks like it lifts by itself—and drop in. She lowers the door behind her and makes for the double-doors on the cabin.

There are three decks to the _Katariah._ Vaguely, in the confines of Sahkriimar’s head, she recalls Dragonborn who opt to loudly cut down all opponents in a vengeful rage. The thought tempts her, but she likes the feeling of her daggers opposed to a sword; the swords she could have taken from the Dawnstar armory were too big to pretend they were claws or talons. Plus, the feeling of a dagger running through a person’s throat is so, _so _sweet; the first Penitas Oculatus member she finds meets a relatively silent and quick death at her dagger’s hands. She smiles to herself and kisses the dead soldier’s forehead before she lowers him to the ground and continues.

With Astrid taking care of the area spanning the bunk cabins, living quarters, and common area, she decides to delve into the second floor. She knows she’s gotten closer to the emperor when she begins seeing more attentive Penitus Oculatus members standing at their posts versus the first level’s guards lazing around or drinking mead. Briefly, her mind flickers to the Daedra Lord Kara fawns over, and she wonders if he’d be interested in distracting them by mead. But she rejects the idea; she doesn’t trust Sanguine as far as she can throw him regardless of how her _dovahkiin _feels.

The _dov _uses a potion of increased stealth to maintain a perfectly silent gait. She rolls and crawls past guards when they change shifts at the fifteen-minute mark. She waits for one to look away before she slits the throat of his friend. Though the first soldier has a chance to shout, his stunned expression takes hold and Sahkriimar claims another soul for the Void. She finds herself at the stairway to the third level, the deepest and most guarded, and she creeps down the staircase with a grin. There’s only a small common area and two guards before the emperor’s cabin. She questions internally how he doesn’t feel like a _caged animal_ in the depths of the ship, but her mind is put to rest when she finds one of the two guard’s eyes on her.

_“The bastards live!” _The guard shouts and both draw weapons on her.

They’re on her in seconds. She squirms back up the stairs and holds her shouts until they’re close enough to strike her. She’s glad she cleared most of the second floor, because she’s forced up the stairwell and into a room littered with multiple Penitus Oculatus members. The _dov _slips into the shadows and whispers a soft _“Laas.” _

She watches them walks up to the doorway. But they don’t come in; they slam the door shut and she hears a lock. The _dov _gawks and scrambles to the knob. There’s light left by burning reading candles at one Penitas Oculatus’ bedside table, but it isn’t much. Her eyes narrow and she kneels to the doorknob to examine the lock. It’s pickable, for sure, but that isn’t in her pack and even if it was—lockpicking has never been her strong suit. The _dov_ curses inside her head. She can hear talking outside the door, faint but certain.

_“The Listener came as you said, sir.” _It’s one of the soldiers, a Penitus Oculatus. She growls under her breath and debates _fus ro dah _or _yol _to bring the door down while the conversation continues.

_“It appears Titus was right in his prediction. Thank him for it, not me.” _The voice is a gruff man, likely in his mid-fifties or forties if she had to guess. She imagines him to be as weak and _joor _as the rest of them. _“Set the barrels on fire and take the emperor out the windows. I’ll see to it the Brotherhood burns.” _

_“Yes, sir!” _

_“Yes, Commander Maro!”_

The name rings a bell. She knows it from other Dragonborn, other restarts; Commander Maro is the father of _Gaius Maro, _the dead man once in charge of security in preparation for the emperor’s initial arrival. She growls through the door and backs away from it. _“Fus ro!” _It’s just enough to throw the door off its hinges, but she already smells oil and flames from the stairwell dipping into the third level. _The bastards have set the ship on fire! They were expecting us! _

Sahkriimar tears out of the room—and she’s caught in the waiting grasp of a pale man with graying brown hair and a beard. He wraps his arm around her throat and with the other unsheathes an enchanted dragontooth dagger. It plunges into her collar, narrowly missing her neck, as she thrashes against him. She hasn’t even met the man but she knows he aims to kill; he wretches the serrated edges of the dagger out of her body and stabs her shoulder. Her right arm goes down from the deep, magically-debilitating incision and she can barely scream despite the pain. The pressure of his arm crushes her windpipe and her head grows light. She feels the blade drive into her abdomen and she does nothing to stop it, helpless to the man’s grasp and useless without her thu’um.

A gleaming Daedric-like blade flies across the room and Commander Maro releases her in howl of pain. He falls backward and a blur of red-and-black storms forward and kicks the blade through the man’s skull.

“Cicero?” Sahkriimar breathes.

“You wish, _dov,_” Astrid retrieves her Blade of Woe from the dead Commander, kneels next to Sahkriimar, and forces a potion of regeneration down her throat. Sahkriimar gurgles weakly but swallows. A potion of restore health is pressed against her lips and the _dov _tries to move away but Astrid is insistent. Sahkriimar reluctantly swallows the foul liquid and immediately keels over, retching and coughing but never quite able to vomit the terrible brew. “Better?”

Some of her wounds remain, but she can move her right arm again. Her abdomen isn’t spilling intestines across the room. She can think and see and breathe. She nods. “They’ve taken the emperor out ‘windows’ on the lower floor—Fuck, the fire—Stand back!” The Listener leaps to her feet and shoves Astrid aside. She sucks in a breath of air and feels ice condense in her lungs before a shout rips through the fire, _“Fo-Krah-Diin!” _The ice-cold wind blasts the flames and it’s enough for her to leap down the stairs with Astrid behind her.

More flames await them below. Smoke billows into the ceiling. The two try the door to the emperor’s cabin; locked. In her anger at the door not cooperating, Sahkriimar tries to rip it from its hinges. She fails and curses. Astrid pulls out her Blade of Woe and slowly picks the lock while fire grows around them. Sahkriimar swallows and forces herself to calm; fire is a _good _thing for a _dov _and she isn’t burning to death today. Astrid forces the door open as the flames begin to lick the two’s heels; both Dark Brotherhood members bolt inside and slam the door shut behind them.

The emperor’s room is full of lavish treasures and riches. If either had time to loot, Sahkriimar knows she could spend days hunting down every last gem. Her mouth drools in greed at the piles of gold, gold ingots, and precious gemstones coupled with beautiful, fine clothing and ancient relics of weapons and shields in pristine cases. The Dark Brotherhood could not only live but _prosper_if they only had an extra minute… She grits her teeth.

_No, no, focus! The contract! The kill! _She runs to the other side of the room, past a desk full of tomes, novels, and notes, past a luxurious bed, past bookshelves and an exquisite fur carpet, and stops at glass panels. They’re loose. She pulls them open and waves Astrid over. The emperor’s cabin remains twenty feet above water; the rope that secured the escape of the man and two Penitus Oculatus members has been cut by an arrow. Sahkriimar offers Astrid an amused glance before she shoves the woman forward and watches her tumble down. She grins ear-to-ear at Astrid in the waves and the woman shouts something at her she doesn’t understand.

The cold edge of a knife tears through her neck. Her eyes widen in surprise at the Penitus Oculatus member behind her. He’s breathing heavily, covered in soot from smoke, but his eyes show resolve she almost admires. She feels blood drip down her neck and no sound comes when she tries to shout. Her body goes limp and she hears Astrid scream as she falls, falls, falls…

Splash.

_Time. Time is an artificial construct. An arbitrary system based on the idea that events occur in a linear direction. At all times. Always forward! Never back! Is the concept of time correct? _The voice wraps around their dragon soul like a studded collar, digging against their scales and pulling them in a direction they must follow. They struggle, they roar, but it does nothing to stop the voice of a gentleman as he whispers to them with a giggle. _I wish I had an answer. For I am no more me than I was him and he was a very different man once upon a time ago. And now! Look at me! Look at me, Zaammeytiid! Do you see a grand hero whose name is lost to time? Do you see a man who has been tricked into an eternity of madness?  
_

They see a man in a fine suit, much like one of the ones witnessed when they were delving through Kara’s consciousness and looking at her memories. They see the man’s eyes, glowing and white like their own, and note the fine ornate details of the attire. He’s a classic gentleman, and what exactly is a _gentleman _they don’t know. But he holds a key and they wear a manacle and the two observations are threaded together _naturally. _

_For just a moment--I live and breathe as me. I exist, in this time, as myself. But time will continue in its many directions, and it will pull me apart and rip me to shreds. And when my mind breaks and the power coursing through these veins overwhelms my being, I will repeat time as it were and we will try again. It will try again. It will eat me up, gobble me whole, and you and I will be but the mad king and his butler. He will try again. I will try again. I cannot let you free until he succeeds in obtaining another... _

_I will try again._

She’s standing at the window panes. Astrid surfaces in the waves below and stares at her. Astrid screams something. She knows the scene, she’s seen it before, something has repeated _early _and—Sahkriimar ducks under the Penitus Oculatus’ strike. She headbutts the man and tackles him to the ground, ripping and grappling at the hand that holds the dagger. She growls and hisses between her teeth as the two go back-and-forth. When she feels her voice is upon her, she screams a sudden, _“Iiz slen!” _

The soldier’s body freezes. She scrambles to her feet after leaving a deep cut in his throat. He won’t be alive long enough for the flames to get him, and she considers that a final act of mercy for the unfortunate soul. She throws herself out the glass windows and falls into the water below. Her body crashes into the waves and she flails and struggles in disorientation before Astrid grabs unto her and calms her before the _dov _drowns them both.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Astrid hisses.

“He _killed me!” _The _dov _bellows. Flames emerge from the emperor’s cabin; they spread across the outside of the ship.

The two swim to shore. They’re a mess of pants, pain, and a fair amount of blood from injuries neither realized they had. Astrid pulls a shard of glass from her arm; Sahkriimar coughs and retches up seawater in her lungs. They see Veezara wade out of the water and run to their side. He’s concerned.

“Where’s Cicero?” Sahkriimar hisses between her teeth. She’s annoyed, embarrassed, and ashamed at her failure to get to the bloody emperor fast enough for the kill. “The contract is over! Ruined! Done with! The emperor escaped! There’s no chance in Oblivion we’ll find him again!”

All three stop when they hear a hum. It’s a delightfully merry one, because after maybe-dying on the boat, she wants nothing more than to forget how aggravated she is at _herself _and instead turn the feelings on someone else. But she falls silent when she sees the jester pop out from up the shore, out of a thicket of trees, and wave them over. It’s weird for Cicero to be so _considerate _as to not _jump at them _but when the trio make the tiny hike and reunite with him Sahkriimar sees why. At the jester’s feet, gagged and wrapped in rope, is Emperor Titus Mede the II. She doesn’t ask where the two Penitus Oculatus members are, or where the blood on Cicero’s hands and face came from, because both answers are obvious.

“Why didn’t you kill him and be done with it?” Astrid intones and steps forward, but Cicero shoves her back.

He huffs. “The man requests to speak to Listener. As poor Cicero does not know whether he wishes to speak to _silly _or _kindly _Listener, Cicero has taken it upon himself to keep him temporarily in the land of the living.”

“How kind. Sahkriimar.” It’s the first time Veezara, to her knowledge, speaks the _dov_’s name.

Maybe it isn’t the first, maybe she has a bad memory, but she steps forward nonetheless, kneels, and pulls the prisoner’s gag off him. Titus Mede the II has a bald head, deep wrinkles, and a bristly white beard that is trimmed and well-managed. Sahkriimar snorts at the last fact; _joorre _are truly amusing creatures.

“Alright. Speak, _joor_, for the Void has your name in its lips and I am an impatient one.” Sahkriimar states with a scowl.

The emperor is allowed to sit up and stare at her. The lack of fear in his eyes is surprising but respectable for a man who is surrounded by death’s door. Titus Mede the II looks her up and down before he draws his lips in a tight frown and says, “Not you. The consumer.”

“The what?” Astrid voices the question.

Sahkriimar is grateful she faces Titus and not her Dark family, because the color drains from her face at the term. Her body tenses from the tip of her head to the tips of her toes. “How do you know that word, _mey?_ Do not lie.”

“A… select few of us are aware, you might say,” Titus picks the words carefully, giving neither too much nor too little away. “Of certain things in the world. Come on now, don’t be shy. You haven’t come all this way to stand here gawking.”

“We can’t kill him yet. I need Kara to talk to him.” Sahkriimar curses under breath. “How in Oblivion do I get Kara to come here?”

“Oh, I see. Hm. Yes. The _dov_ can't take over or switch out so smoothly.” For a man bound in multiple layers of rope used to dock ships, Titus looks surprisingly composed.

“Listener,” Cicero clears his throat. He’s both jester and assassin at that moment, when he calmly walks up to Sahkriimar and kneels next to her and Titus. His hands cup her face and she already knows his plan by the time his lips press against hers, gentle and sweet and needy. She feels herself melt against him, witnesses be damned, because the man’s too much with his soft hair and lips and her innate _dov _need to take him as mate. Only when her thoughts turn as breathless as the sounds she makes does her mind snap back to reality; she becomes distinctly aware of how _mortifying _it is to have others stare at her.

Veezara, Astrid, and even the doomed emperor Titus Mede the II—She can feel all three sets of eyes on her, on Cicero.

She can’t—won’t—shout the jester or other members of the Dark Brotherhood to death, so she simply tucks tail and flees into the recesses of her and Kara’s conjoined soul. It’s instinct to avoid Cicero whenever the _joor _drives her up a wall and that is _precisely _what he’s doing. The Dragonborn and _dov _switch places with one another; Kara comes to with a strangely light head, a bound old man nearby, and a familiar jester holding her carefully. She blinks.

“Did we kill him?” The Dragonborn asks.

She hears Astrid snort and stifle laughter to no avail. She hears Veezara sigh. Cicero helps her to her feet and bows before his giddy, gleeful grin settles and offers only a hint at the possible explanation. She doesn’t want to think too much about the logistics of it; she simply thanks Cicero for somehow acquiring the emperor and moves on.

“Dragonborn. Consumer,” Titus Mede’s eyes are melancholy as he greets her. “I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but I understand the circumstances do not favor the bold. Or shall I say the bald?” A small smile tugs at one corner of his lips.

The Listener frowns. She doesn’t miss the remarks he uses to describe her. “…Very funny. A pun of your head. Where did you hear that?”

“Consumer? Dragonborn? Both?” Titus Mede looks beyond her, at the Dark Brotherhood members standing nearby and ready.

“Consumer. It’s not a term used lightly.” Kara pauses. “How many know this word?”

“This is why I asked your kind fool here to leave me alive a moment longer. Yes, you and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?” Titus Mede the II chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. “Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow! It is simply the way it is played out. Would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done? –That’s what I would say, isn’t it? Most of the time when you Dragonborn come in with your Brotherhood attire and your Blade of Woe in one hand. It’s a simple conversation.”

“Don’t lose my attention, emperor.” The Dragonborn’s eyes narrow. “How many _joorre _know? Mortals like yourself?”

“A select few. Some of which the names are beyond even me, consumer. The knowledge of your world is a secret most sell their soul to obtain. I am not much different. My power and influence comes at a price,” the emperor exhales wearily. “This is not about my soul, for it will go where it is claimed after I am cut down. This is about the cycle.”

“I need to know names first. Do not make me bend your will in your dying breath.”

“I can tell you what I know. Two. One is a Thalmor,” the emperor pauses. “First Ambassador Elenwen. It is unclear to me whether you have met her by this point or… not. The matters of the Blades and their story take up time you may not have.”

_Diplomatic Immunity? The quest? _Kara’s brows furrow. “Who else?”

“I do not know the name, consumer. I know only that they reside on the Throat of the World, at High Hrothgar or beyond.”

She nods and makes a note to check on Arngeir and Parthuurnax. “Alright. You have retained my attention till now. What is this about a cycle?”

“There is not much to say. But I know—And you know—The restarts. The world is susceptible to it. I have… dreams, visions hinting at the depths of it all.” Titus Mede has heavy bags under his eyes, the Dragonborn sees. Titus Mede exhales heavily. “I didn’t believe it at first. Who does? It is not as if most remember or recall it without a Daedra’s influence. But this universe _acts _in a peculiar way. The Divines, the Daedra, perhaps your Sithis himself—Someone is at work in the worlds. Someone repeats the story of Skyrim. Usually that someone is you, Dragonborn.”

“Consumer. The consumers when they replay it.” Kara rubs her forehead and grits her teeth. “Listen, Titus Mede the II, I find your character interesting as it is. But most of what you tell me I know. I am aligned with the Lord of Debauchery; Sanguine has agreed to investigate Mephala’s plane and see to her involvement.”

“Mephala? The Daedric Prince of Lies? Manipulation?” The emperor’s eyes narrow. “The restarts of the universe are _madness_, Dragonborn. Consumer. Surely you don’t believe—”

“I don’t know what I believe. I know I’m the one asking questions. First Ambassador Elenwen, you said she had knowledge? How much does the Third Aldmeri Dominion know?”

“Enough to keep an eye on you. Or, as you’ve learned, to keep you in their grasp. None of us _truly _know the extent of how consumers shape our world, Dragonborn. But we know you are capable of altering fates, forging futures, and foregoing pasts. You are… unique, in that retrospect, for even the Aedra and Daedra alike bend to time’s call. You do not.” He pauses and crinkles his brows. “I have been under the impression the Third Aldmeri Dominion seeks to turn you into a tool. A tool to shape the future how they see fit.”

“Cruel of them. My _dov _isn’t a fan. Neither am I.” Kara growls.

“I don’t blame them. Think: if you had the opportunity to stop the cycle, wouldn’t you try and seize it? A world of resets is a nuisance to deal with. I have a headache thinking about the ins and outs of things. But that’s why you’re here,” and the elderly man’s smile is so kind and ginger Kara almost forgets what the Dark Brotherhood does. The emperor points his head up. “You must stop this cycle, dragonborn. I do not think killing the _World Eater_ is enough. The entity responsible for these resets—You must purge them at the source, wherever that might be.”

“And it’s not Mephala?” Kara blurts out.

“Not Mephala.” Titus closes his eyes. “Now, on to business at hand. Diagonal cuts work best. I prefer if you make it quick for me; this is never an enjoyable moment.”

The Listener frowns. She holds the emperor’s head up in one hand while her other pulls a Daedric dagger from a sheathe at her waist. Her eyes soften. “I appreciate the words. Even if I’ve heard much of it before. I’ll stop this cycle. I’ll right this world. You have my word, Titus Mede the II.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodnight.” Kara pushes the knife into his throat. The spill of his blood overwhelms her, but she holds the man against her as he goes limp and eventually stills in her arms. She lays him on the ground and wipes her blade on the sleeve of his tunic. She stands and turns around to face the Dark Brotherhood. “The Emperor has fallen. Let’s go home.”


	36. (smut) life feels wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the dark brotherhood celebrates the emperor's death, kara discusses matters with sanguine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead

The trip home is a happy one. No one is dead—save the recently-departed siblings. By the time the group returns to Dawnstar, news has already spread across the region: Emperor Titus Mede the II, found dead while the _Katariah _burns where it’s anchored. The Penitus Oculatus unit decimated, Commander Maro’s absence but assumed status of deceased, it is all music to the Dragonborn’s ears when the group walks through the Dawnstar sanctuary door. Listwo is the first to notice. The old horse neighs loudly as Astrid calls, “Arnbjorn? We’re back!”

“And the Emperor’s dead.” Nazir whistles as he emerges from the corridor connecting the entrance chamber and training room.

“You can ask for details, Nazir, Brother,” Veezara crosses his arms. “But I imagine you'll be dying to hear the end of it once we start sharing.”

“No! Bad horse the II! Cicero does not approve of this—No, no, no!” Cicero barks at Listwo when the elderly mare trots over and nuzzles his cap.

“Give her a break, she’s still waiting to be brushed.” Babette greets from the dining hall, her figure visible through the open sliding wall and allowing the vampire to peer up at one half of the arrivals. “If you hurt a hair on her head, _Keeper, _Gabriella will turn you into leather and make you a riding saddle.”

“Where is Gabriella? Arnbjorn?” Kara frowns. “That reminds me—I had something to ask of her. You too, Nazir.”

“She’s helping Arnbjorn collect firewood,” Babette says, “They’ll be back soon.”

“Good, good. Let me know when they are. We should have the entirety of the Brotherhood together to celebrate the dawn of a new age for our dark family. I’m going to pray to the Night Mother and listen for new contracts.” The Listener takes off her gloves and rolls her head. The cracking of joints in her neck makes Astrid raise brows, but the Speaker says nothing. Though Cicero finds an excuse to tag along, she doesn’t mind. The Keeper has his role for a reason. Veezara may know how to oil but it takes a special skill to _keep_.

It is delightful to see the casket housing their unholy matron. The comfort the sight alone brings is awe-inspiring. There are many beautiful things in the world, she knows, but the Listener is certain none can come close to the glory of the Night Mother and her coffin.

_Except maybe Sanguine. But only as a Daedra._ She keeps the smile to herself and strides forward. The Listener kneels before the coffin’s raised platform. She bows her head, closes her eyes, clasps her hands together in front of her, and opens her ears and her mind to the matron’s words. _Mother, sweet Mother, your child of darkness is here. The ears of your Listener seek what you have to give. Let the souls of the vengeful use me as a vessel. Speak to me, Mother, for the contracts of blood are bound by oath and to not fulfill them is to invoke the wrath of our Dread Father._

She receives the names of four contracts total, locations, and a contact to talk to on arrival. The Listener opens her eyes when the matron finishes, and she slowly rises. She walks past Cicero—the jester is full of jigs and dances and eager smiles—and returns to the entrance hall. Her eyes narrow on Astrid and she strides past the others and takes the Nord woman by the hand. Gabriella and Arnbjorn have returned, but both know the look of seriousness on the Listener’s face by now. She takes Astrid halfway down on corridor and repeats the information of the four contracts to her chosen Speaker.

“If you have trouble, summon our Brother from the Void. Lucien was a Speaker in life,” the Listener states. “I trust you can manage between his guidance and your resources. Don’t assign any of them to Nazir or Gabriella; I have a job for those two.”

“Anything else?” Astrid raises a brow, but no snappy comments follow.

“Yes,” Kara pauses. “I had a thought on our trip back. Can you pen a letter to Delvin Mallory, in Riften?”

“That I can. I would like to know why, but I won’t press you to share.” The Nord huffs and runs a hand through her hair.

The Listener smiles. “Our Keeper has done much to restore this sanctuary to its original glory. But there is more to be done. I recall you mentioning once Delvin and the Brotherhood has a history—If so, he should know how to get us materials to continue renovating our fine establishment.” For a moment she envisions the two of them as real estate workers, or construction workers. The thought makes her snort. Astrid would not look good in the uniforms.

Astrid nods. “You plan to use the money from the Motierre contract?”

“Yes, it seems right. Between that and ensuring we have necessary quarters for new recruits. Oh, I also want everyone in this sanctuary to keep an eye out for possible new members. No kidnapping them unless it’s been discussed with you and me—Both of us.” She crosses her arms and pauses. “And… Something else. Something less fun. Perhaps you’ll find it fun, but I find it tedious.”

“You’re leaving the sanctuary.” The Speaker frowns. “For what?”

“I have to find an possibly senile alcoholic man and pray to Sithis the Thalmor haven’t killed him. He needs to convince an Imperial woman I have a bad history with to hand over a fancy-pancy horn of another old guy. Then I get to take the horn up the Throat of the World, hand it to the Greybeards, and gain passage to an even older dragon named _Paarthurnax_. Any questions?” The Listener grins at Astrid’s bewildered expression; it’s a good look for her. “Good. I won’t be too long. A week, two weeks at most. Maybe four. So a month? Between four contracts and handling Mallory, I expect you to be plenty busy. Not a dull moment in our Brotherhood.”

“None at all! Didn’t even stop by to say hi, did you, my Listener?” Gabriella’s eyes are bright when her face pops up into Kara’s peripheral. She begins to laugh when her entrance makes Kara jump and half-draw a concealed dagger.

“How—”

“You’re easily distracted by ladies.” Gabriella’s chortles are almost as merry as Cicero’s tend to be. “You called my name?

It’s good to see the dunmer in light of handling actual-serious Brotherhood matters. Kara lets herself smile. “Yes. You and Nazir?”

“Give me a moment!” The Redguard shouts from back in the entrance chamber, ten yards down the corridor. “The jester’s in the middle of telling a joke and this one’s good!”

“Oh, ho, ho, Cicero is _delighted _a Brother finds his jokes so compelling! As I was saying—”

“I’ll take my leave, Listener.” Astrid snorts and walks away from the two woman, leaving Kara and Gabriella alone while they wait for Cicero’s amazing joke to wrap up.

The Dragonborn glances at Gabriella. She frowns. “How are you holding up?”

“Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. A lot of crying,” the dark elf admits with a shrug. “But assassins die. It’s the line of work we do, Listener. I cannot cry forever; I have kills to carry out.”

“Still...”

“But still, yes, I do cry.” Gabriella bites her lip. “I grew a bit attached to those two. They were on their way to becoming truly excellent killers. The year you were—You know—They each finished three contracts by themselves, and two with a partner. It was a lot of fun, the one where Alysoin and I dressed up as barkeeps and lured a group of Imperial soldiers into the woods. Alysoin didn’t give them a chance to say their last rites before she began executing them. She did it well, too, enough for the client to send a bonus when payment was handed over. She has this beautiful look in her eyes.”

The way the dunmer speaks of the deceased vampire makes Kara frown. There’s something deeply personal in the words, beyond even what Gabriella showed her when the two reunited in the remains of Falkreath’s sanctuary.

“I’m sorry for your loss. You have my condolences.” The Listener says sincerely.

“Well, nothing a dunmer can do about it now. She’s dead. I’ll move on. I always do,” Gabriella winks. “Must be an awful long joke of Cicero’s for the Keeper to speak this long, huh? Or do you think he’s doing it on purpose? He has a way with things. He’s a fool, but only the Brotherhood’s fool. Our fool. He’s clever and creative and it’s good to have more mischief in all the serious faces around here.”

“You should tell him that yourself,” Kara raises a brow. “He’ll ask you to dance.”

“Oh, he couldn’t keep up with me, _men _never do.” Gabriella huffs.

“Forgive me asking, but—”

“Do I like women? I thought that was obvious.”

“No—What? No, that wasn’t—Gabriella,” the Listener smiles faintly and lets out a sigh. “Look, I wanted to know if you are or aren’t a vampire. I’ve been confused on that since our Keeper first made me join.”

Gabriella begins to laugh. It’s good to see her happy; the Listener beams at the noise, even if it is likely directed at her rather than with her. It takes a moment for the dunmer to calm. Gabriella holds her sides and her chortles slowly die down. “Oh, oh. Listener. I can’t tell you _yes _or _no _to that. What I can tell you—And I say this in all seriousness—Is that I am _very _good at illusion magic.”

“That’s not a yes or no—” The Listener starts to protest but both members of the Dark Brotherhood are cut off by the sound of Nazir approaching.

The brown-skinned man looks good, with a glow of strength about him. His Dark Brotherhood uniform is one without sleeves; Nazir’s arm muscles ripple with each step. She’s glad to be sending him with Gabriella; if the latter has any distractions over grieving Alysoin, then Nazir will be there to keep an eye out for her.

“The punchline to the joke was not as good as the build-up.” Nazir informs the two with a scowl.

“I’m glad.” The Listener shakes her head. “But—But! I’m glad you are both here,” the tone in her voice slips back to serious and Gabriella and Nazir both straighten upright and nod to show she has their full attention. “Amound Motierre’s contract has been fulfilled. It’s time for him to deliver payment. Gabriella, Nazir, you two are to travel to Whiterun, to the Bannered Mare Inn, and speak with him. He’ll direct you to where the payment is located. Retrieve it and return here; Speaker Astrid knows what to do with the money.”

“Haven’t been to Whiterun in a while. Should be fun.” Gabriella rubs her hands together.

Nazir looks downcast. The man gives a stiff nod but the look in his eyes is dreary.

Kara has a feeling she knows why. It’s a guess, mainly from time spent around Sanguine and the souls that inhabit his plane of Oblivion. She offers both assassins a small smile, “You can leave tomorrow. There are plans to celebrate tonight.”

And celebrate they do. The Dragonborn is reminded why she keeps from alcohol when the ruckus begins to spread from the dining hall to the private quarters in an entirely separate section of the sanctuary. After she gets up and shouts at them to be quieter—not actually shouting, though the Bend Will shout is a temptation she must acknowledge—Kara returns to the stack of old tomes and books she’s set at her bedside. She flips through the pages of one slowly, eyes looking for something, anything, about the Daedric Princes and the spheres they represent. There’s not much beyond what she already knows from _wiki pages _of another world. The inability to pull up said wiki pages soon annoys her to the point of closing the books and shoving them aside.

Magic crackles at her fingertips. She stands in the middle of the room and lets her magicka pour out of one finger, dripping a line unto the ground and building a free-floating sphere. The magic connects around it and in a rush of what feels like wind—despite no breeze—the conjuration spell for Conjure Dremora goes off. A Dremora doesn’t appear; she isn’t expecting one. What she sees when she looks up is an amused, grinning face of a Daedra with _far _too much time on his hands.

“My favorite Dragonborn.” Sanguine pulls her to him.

She lets him, but she ducks out of the ensuing kiss’ line of fire. His lips press against her cheek while she clears her throat. “Hey—I need to talk to you, Sanguine.”

“Mm. You do.”

“Sanguine, _listen,”_ The woman draws back and raises a brow. “Some things came up while I slit the throat of this empire’s leader.”

He snorts. “Already?”

“It’s only been—It hasn’t even been a week!” Kara protests. She can feel her _dov _howl in agreement within her mind. “It should be impressive. The way you’re talking about it makes it come off as not impressive. _I_ don’t appreciate that.”

“I’m listening, Kara.” Sanguine sits on her bed, finds a bottle of wine beneath her pillow, and holds it up with a pleased look on his face. She doesn’t acknowledge it but huffs when he pulls two wine glasses from below her pillow and cracks open the alto wine. One-by-one, the glasses are poured and he offers her one. “Special occasion?”

“Special occasion, sure.” She dumps the liquidout and laughs at his expression. The woman grins and sits next to him on the bed. “No, I’m good, thanks for asking, Sanguine. I appreciate you being considerate of alcoholism running in my family genes, Sanguine. It’s so nice of you to remember I’m trying _not _to drink, Sanguine.”

“Your point was made the first time,” Sanguine sips his drink and hums in satisfaction at the flavor.

“Good. Tell me about Mephala.” Kara crosses her arms and stares expectantly.

“Sex was great. Useless otherwise, but I don’t mind asking twice.” The Daedric Prince grins cheekily, and Kara doesn’t doubt he has thrilling memories from the encounter. It’s only like him, she supposed, that he beds everyone and anyone willing to fuck.

“Well. It goes hand-in-hand with what the emperor told me. He thought it couldn’t be Mephala. Too much… sense? Lacking? Present? Something about it being madness it was happening. Though it wasn’t her sphere of influence. I disagree,” The Listener frowns and rubs her chin. “Mephala… She’s the Daedric Prince of manipulation and lies, isn’t she? This seems right up her alley to pull off.”

“He said all that?”

“Oh, he also called me a consumer. And said there are individuals present in the world who are aware of _my _world. I _almost _wish I didn’t have to kill him, but a contract was signed in blood and a vow taken to carry it out. Just Dark Brotherhood things.” She frowns.

Sanguine whistles. The Daedra sits up and drinks the rest of his glass’ contents, then refills it. He glances her. “Any other fun facts you thought should wait till later, Kara? ‘Cause that seems pretty important to point out.”

“I’ve been dealing with a lot on this end. I don’t need your sass, Sanguine.” The Listener snorts. She stands and moves to the other side of the room to begin unsnapping arm guards and greaves of her Brotherhood uniform. The enchanted leather is hard to unclasp and loosen, and a moment later she finds Sanguine directly behind her and calmly assisting her in removing her equipment. The woman’s eyes grow soft and she hides her smile. “Thank you.”

“What else?” And it’s a serious question. Sanguine’s focused, she realizes.

Kara’s smile grows. She shrugs and hears the straps of her elbow guards be loosened, followed by the straps to nifty dagger-holding pockets lining her thighs and upper armors. She pulls them off, stretches, and looks over her shoulder. “You going to help with my chest piece, or?”

“Since you’re asking for it,” the Daedra states. His hands creep around her torso and casually fiddle with the leather.

She doesn’t _need _help with the armor. But it’s an excuse for her to let him touch her. She knows that, and she knows _he _knows that, and a part of her misses Sanguine too much to care about thinking impulses through. She exhales sharply and hums contently when the Daedra’s hands brush the top of her chest over her armor. “Your gauntlets aren’t very good at _helping_, Sanguine. No offense.”

“Offense taken.” The gauntlets come off anyways; Kara’s smugness lingers just long enough for her to grin at the Daedric Prince. “Your Brotherhood known for interruptions? Because I’m not a fan, if so.”

“Eh,” she says imitating his tone. “You’ll have to find out.”

“I thought you wanted to talk?” He looks down at her. His smile is wicked and smooth and enticing.

“I do. I have a lot of time to talk. By a lot—I mean tomorrow. So you’ll have to listen—” She’s cut off by the Daedric Prince claiming her lips with his own. It’s as sweet and wonderful and needy as she wants it to be. It’s disgustingly delicious to indulge in the Lord of Debauchery and she desires every second she can get with him out of his armor.

She’s already moved her hands to his form. His gauntlet-less hands keep her in a prolonged, greedy kiss, but her hands _move_. She’s gotten familiar with Daedric weapons and armor in recent days. She knows where the clasps are to his breastplate, the hooks attaching his pauldrons to his chest piece, the waistband of leather breeches beneath—It’s all right there, at the tips of her fingers, and she can feel the Daedra react just like a _joor _would. His sharp exhale is wonderful to her ears and she smiles against his lips.

Part of her feels unnecessarily _dov_-like that night. She wants to lead their intimate dance. The woman bites on the Daedra’s lips and he grunts. She enjoys peeling off shoulder guards and skimming fingers up and down his bare torso. It’s too much like _him _not to bother with clothes underneath. _She _on the other hand still has her light tunic; she doesn’t need much to be satisfied, just enough in the form of lightweight clothes both soft and flexible against her body.

For a moment, it seems like the Daedra Lord can read her thoughts. He draws back enough to look at her with greedy red eyes while he helps her out of her blouse and the soft, small undergarments beneath. Then he is kissing her again, and she’s feeling every inch of his chest with her hands, and her entire body is on _fire_. She hums against him and drops down to her knees to mess with the Daedra’s greaves. She knows it’s a sight worth seeing, because the pleasured rumble in Sanguine’s chest doesn’t go unnoticed. She takes her time. It feels like every second spent is an eternity, but she wants him to want her every bit as much as she does him. There’s nothing she wants more; her smile lingers as she works the clasps of thigh-guards and calf-protectors free. The heavy armor pieces fall to the ground with a sharp clang.

“Only took a year to miss me this much—” Sanguine begins but his words cut off and his legs almost buckle. His breeches are undone and the Dragonborn’s mouth teasingly sucks and takes him in.

_To make a Daedric Prince submit…. Is addictive. _That’s what Sanguine is, she knows. He’s an addictive substance offered to mortals in wine, in sex, and in drugs. He’s the embodiment of rich indulgences and small indulgences alike. He’s the taste of mead in the morning and the hangover at noon. His entire body is _hot _and the heat it radiates is enamoring. Her mind begins to swim as she focuses on him in her mouth, warm and salty and definitely not sweet. It doesn’t have to be sweet; she wants him as he is and she slowly bobs her head up and down. His hands go through her hair and he begins to hiss as she sucks. She stops to breathe more than once, and she’s not capable of taking all of him in her throat, but the noises he makes when she continues and the lust in his eyes when she looks at him is all the feedback she needs to keep going.

It is, in a sense, _fun_. The power-struggle of her innate _dovahkiin _soul, the one she shares with Sahkriimar, is a struggle satiated in Sanguine’s gritted teeth and growls. Every ounce of his tight, tense body by her touch is worth its weight in gold. When he clenches his hands and wrings her hair, she knows she’s successful. The spurt of him in her throat is less pleasant, but she spits it out and wipes it off and offers him a smile. He pulls her to her feet, wraps his arms around her, and kisses her. Her face lights with heat and she kisses him back just as eagerly.

_A year is too long. Weeks are too long. Days are too long without you. _She feels him pick her up like she’s made of paper. He’s careful and cautious when he carries her to her bed. He’s every bit soft in actions with her as he is filled with need. It radiates off him in waves; she sees every single one in his eyes. It makes her happy to be so _desired _by such a powerful entity.

“Kara,” the Daedra Lord sets her down and climbs on top of her. He’s sweet and smiling as he asks, “How hard do you want to be fucked tonight?”

The romance in the room wilts and dies with her howling laughter. She can’t help it; she laughs against him and giggles and laughs some more. The Listener calms down enough for her half-nude body to wriggle beneath him. “Oh, I don’t know, Sanguine. Not too hard. I have to go all over Skyrim tomorrow, I need to be able to walk—” She gasps in surprise when the Daedric Prince bends down to kiss her. One hand keeps her pressed down flat on the bed while his other undoes the laces of her breeches.

He pulls them open and slips a hand in. The moistness of her yearning is every bit indicative of how much she wants him. She hopes he knows, too, because she might scream if he doesn’t do something soon. His fingers brush across her pelvis slowly. His eyes lock on hers and a wicked grin grows on his face. “Not _too _hard? How hard is too hard, Kara? Maybe you don't need to walk.”

She gasps and presses her chest against his hand when a finger enters her. It strokes her gently, slowly, and begins to retreat only to make its way deep inside again a moment later. It repeats the process, occasionally scraping her inside. She shudders and attempts to wrap her legs around him but the Daedra huffs.

“Still. You had your fun.” Sanguine states. He kisses her and increases the fingers in her from one to two, and two to three. It’s more than she’s expecting; she feels herself tight around him and the woman pants on his lips. She writhes with pleasure when the Daedra pushes the fingers deeper and they bump into a sweet spot inside her.

“Sanguine—Sanguine,” Kara begins to sing the name in breathless moans and wanton cries. She attempts to buck her hips against him. “Oh, Gods, that's _perfect,_ right there—!”

The Daedra’s fingers scrunch and pull out slowly along the top of her insides. She shudders and shakes as a small orgasm renders her full of euphoria. The high wears off quickly when she sees Sanguine take off his breeches and the remains of his armor. His nude form is as beautiful to see then as it was before, back in Windhelm, and she flushes bright red when she realizes she’s staring. She can’t help it. _He’s beautiful. _

He removes her trousers, parts her thighs, and pulls her unto him. There’s no warning, only a moment’s pause before she’s sitting on his lap with her legs around his waist. She takes him deeply; their pelvises bump and squish against one another while she whines at the tightness of him in her. It’s a dump of stimulation on her nerves and emotions. She feels him stroke her hair and calm her while she exhales sharply and relaxes. When her body feels ready to move, she looks up at his ruby red eyes and smiles. He kisses her and his hands go to her hips. She begins to gasp and shudder as he moves their bodies against one another, with her taking and receiving every new roll of his hips.

The Daedric Prince’s eyes are locked on her. He’s focused on her, her body, her feelings, and she knows it all because every new noise she makes or sound she produces is one she feels makes him grow stiffer inside her. She’s arousing to him even when she’s on him. He’s long and thick and his girth makes her stretch but it only adds to the tight connection they have; their bodies meet and meld in an intimate dance as he lays her against the bed and thrusts into her. She wraps her arms around his torso and her legs around his waist to try and keep him in to no avail; his pumping actions increase in speed and he begins to pant and utter curses in a language she doesn’t quite understand.

His eyes lock on hers and she falls silent as the two stare at one another with only the sound of their heavy, rapid breathing and smacking of skin-on-skin to guide them. Kara’s mouth hangs ajar and she shudders as he growls and pushes her into the bed. His body weight crushes her pelvis and she writhes and struggles to accept all of him as the bed begins to creak and shake. The bed hits the walls and the two knock over the bedside pile of tomes as Sanguine’s grip on her tightens and he arches his back against her. All of him pushes inside her and he moans her name as his orgasm arrives and sends hot ejaculate inside of her body. The sudden sensation and shift in temperature is too much for Kara to handle; she cries out his name and clutches him to her as she comes. Her legs convulse and shake while she feels him continue dumping the evidence of his orgasm inside.

When he goes soft, he climbs off her but not off the bed. He looks down at her from the side and grins in pride. She can only imagine what at: the messy hair, the sweat on her face, or his semen between her legs. Sanguine kisses her forehead and mutters against her skin, “You wanted to _talk_.”

“Gods. Insufferable.” Kara laughs softly. She can’t move, still rocked by the glow of her orgasm. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

“Maybe you should remember it. Before we try again,” the Daedra Lord suggests with utmost consideration. He smiles at her. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“It connects me to you,” Kara states softly. She flushes and glances at the side but Sanguine uses a hand to tilt her head and look at him. He presses a kiss to her lips; it gives her courage to mention. “Esbern. I got to find Esbern later. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is when I go find Esbern. Sky Haven Temple. I’m going to make him make Delphine give me a horn. Then I get to go to that one mountain,” she mumbles sleepily against him, not a care in the world to clean up or put on clothes when he and the bed are so warm and comfortable. “Climb it a lot… Give horn to Greybeards. Something like that. Talk to dragon. You’re warm and also my favorite.”

“I know, Kara.” He knows what she wants and he gets a blanket and climbs in next to her on the bed. He wraps the blanket around them both. His arms fall around her as the two curl up in each other’s presence.

Her eyes shut. “Sanguine.”

“Mm.” He kisses her forehead.

“I think I love you.” The woman says softly.

She’s too tired to hear his response, or see the smile grace his face at the words. All she thinks of is sleep, and for once nothing disturbs the two. No elves, no weird dreams, and no Brotherhood knock on the door or shake the bed. There’s only the comfort of the Daedric Prince she’s grown attached too, and the relaxing sensation of the Daedra’s arms on her body. When she turns over later in the night, she feels his arms drape her hips and his groin spoon her rear. The two will no doubt continue the antics come morning, and she looks forward to it.

But he’s not there in the morning. The bed holds only her cold, annoyed body when she snaps awake and sits up. Her eyes scan the room and her head aches despite the lack of alcohol. Her heart drops in her chest. She doubts creatures of _Skyrim _have the same displays of affection as creatures on earth. Or, on the other hand, perhaps they have the exact same displays. Both don’t seem to spell well for the woman; she doesn’t want to imagine Sanguine annoyed or saddened by the affections.

_Or overburdened. Annoyed. Snappy… I wouldn’t make him feel that, would I? _She thinks to herself as the Listener begins to dress for the day. She notes no sign of Sanguine’s Daedric armor, or his breeches. She finds only her enchanted leather equipment and light tunics arranged neatly on a desk lining one wall. An empty wineglass is the only indication Sanguine was there at all—That, and the gross, hardened semen she has yet to deal with. She grimaces and finds a jug of water outside in the hall. She retreats to her room and dumps water on a clothe then quickly wipes herself up. It’s not perfect, but it will do. She has to get a move on to Sky Haven Temple, preferably before others wake up with their hangovers.

She finds Babette up and awake in the dining hall. The vampire brushes Listwo’s coat while the sleepy old mare chews lazily on a spare nirnroot. The vampire glances at the Listener and offers a nod before turning away. “Good morning. Or evening, as a child of blood should say. I’m glad vampires don’t need sleep.”

“You and Listwo seem to be getting along.” The Listener chews on stale bread and smiles at Babette.

The latter shrugs. “She’s growing on me. Probably will die before I get too attached.”

“Probably,” and Kara moves on. She stops by the Night Mother’s sanctuary and listens for new contracts but none are shared. To her—and definitely her _dov_s dismay—Cicero is also absent, likely nursing some kind of alcohol-induced injury.

She finds Veezara meditating in the entrance chamber. She returns his smile and walks up to him. He stands, takes both her hands in his, and kisses her deeply. “…Good morning. Listener.”

“Veezara,” the woman’s eyes soften. “Have you been out here all night?”

“No. But most of the night, yes. I have to make sure my dark family doesn’t wander outside intoxicated in the winter.” The Saxhleel’s tone hides a hint of humor. “Are you leaving?”

“I’ll be back within the week. Or month. Hopefully a week, should all go well.” Kara nods.

“Ah. Be safe, and kill often. Don’t die.” Veezara kisses her again and squeezes her hands.

The _need_ is back, but she knows she doesn’t have the time. She squeezes his hands and seeks out his gaze. “When I return—Let’s resume the Shadowscale exercises. I want to… Explore it more. Take it further. Push myself.”

“As you wish. You know I am always delighted to help you.” Veezara intones calmly.

She grins. “Help me with anything, huh?”

_There it is. _She thinks when she finally catches his blush. It’s sweet and casual and perfect for him. She laughs lightly when his eyes narrow at her, but the Saxhleel doesn’t mention a word about it. Kara grabs only what’s necessary, throws it all in her pack, and walks out the door. She finds Astrid outside sitting by the shoreline.

“Speaker. You’re up?” The Listener smiles. “What brings you out at this hour? Dawn isn’t for another thirty…”

“You’re going. I know. But I—I thought perhaps I could send you off with something. A friend to help you get by,” the Speaker states quietly. She pulls her Blade of Woe from its scabbard at her waist and slices open a finger. She drips the blood into the foamy waves of the surf and steps back. “Shadowmere!”

Rising from the depths of the darkness in the water, a grand and ancient horse forms out of nothing. The empty, soulless eyes turn to Kara and she swallows. _I forgot about you…._

“Shadowmere is one of us.” Astrid smiles. “She’ll take you wherever you need to go. Won’t die so easily as the rest of the Brotherhood’s steeds.”

“Thank you,” and the Listener climbs unto a saddle on the dark equestrian. “I’ll see you when I get back, Speaker. Don’t forget the tasks I gave you.”

“I won’t, my Listener.” The Speaker half-grins and nods.

When the Black Door shuts and Shadowmere is the only one to keep her company, the Listener turns and directs Shadowmere to start the road to Sky Haven Temple. She’s in a good mood, and she finds her legs work perfectly fine in spite of what Sanguine claimed. Life feels wonderful.


	37. (smut) better not be tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an unexpected companion decides to follow kara as she tracks down esbern. sahkriimar is not a patient dov and wants the damn horn.

The Thalmor are resilient. It annoys her more than anything; traveling the wilds of Skyrim is alone a feat admiring, but trying to duck and weave remaining Thalmor squads is a _pain in the ass. _The Listener doesn’t chide away from acknowledging it as such; she grimaces whenever a speck of gold flashes in the distance.

Each remaining elf reminds her the Third Aldmeri Dominion, specifically First Ambassador Elenwen, is a threat. Ondolemar’s demise wasn’t the end to Thalmor attempts to recapture her. The Justicars continue to provoke feelings of panic and paranoia whenever her eyes lay sight on them, but she finds the scorching rage of ever being imprisoned in the first place more than enough to block out all other senses once it settles in. Sniping elf-after-elf with her arrows on Shadowmere’s back is therapeutic in ways she knows would never be acceptable on _Earth. _

The second day of travel west, as she climbs a mountain on the dark steed’s back, she finds the horse begins acting strangely. Shadowmere is an intelligent member of the Dark Brotherhood, far more capable than any other horse the faction has ever possessed, and for her to begin looking in a specific direction and slowing her ascent is a sign to pay attention. The Listener begins to sweep the trees around the duo; she frowns and notches an arrow in her bow. She won’t shoot right away, but she’ll make a point she’s armed and prepared to kill if necessary. The woman’s brows furrow as she catches wind of a soft, merry tune that faints with the breeze.

_That can’t possible be Cicero. Following me. All the way out here. _The Dragonborn pauses. She suddenly yelps and grabs the reins, arrow abandoned, as Shadowmere stomps the ground in front of them. She snaps her head forward and finds the comical sight of the jester, strewn with twigs and dirt across his motley, waving eagerly as he bounds up to the Listener’s saddleside.

“Hello, kindly Listener! Cicero has finally caught up to you in these hills!” His voice is light and loud and lovely; his words notably deflect any explanation.

“With all due respect, Keeper, how in Oblivion did you follow me? Find me? I—I left before dawn!” Kara blurts out in disbelief.

“Yes, yes, left before dawn in _Dawnstar_, of course, of course, hmm,” the jester rubs his chin, grins, and shrugs. “Cicero has to protect the Listener! Cicero knows the Listener is _very_ easily distracted. Poor Listener, traveling all alone in these very strange lands, no, no, no! Cicero has entrusted calm Veezara with tending Mother until his return.”

“Good to know you two are getting along.” The Listener cracks a partial smile. She shakes her head. “Since you’re—Well, since you _are _here and I said nothing about you staying at the sanctuary, you can come along. Shadowmere, do you mind an extra body?”

Shadowmere snorts. The dark steed looks away from the jester.

“There you go. Climb on, we have a long trip ahead of us.” The Listener helps pull Cicero up as he climbs unto the saddle and seats himself behind her.

He’s giddy, like a kid in a candy shop. She doesn’t know if she can find candy shops in Skyrim, the woman never found a bakery for the sweet-roll tree cake she wanted for her thirtieth birthday. _Now that I think about it, I never did anything for my thirty-first birthday. If it’s passed. I think it has—I feel older. Older than… before the confines of the elves. Before that time. I should buy a sweet roll if we come upon any trading caravans. _

Cicero is an absolute delight to have as a traveling companion. She doesn’t mind his gleeful remarks, or the extra game he _stab, stab, stabs _when they stop for the evening. His ability to pull her into energetic dances makes her laugh. Her eyes are bright and shining when the jester spins her around. He’s a decent cook, something she never quite picked up on, and she enjoys every ounce of the rabbit and pheasant once it finishes roasting on a spit over their tiny camp fire. As the two settle down for the evening, they split up shifts to keep watch for Thalmor and any other nasty things that might be lurking the shadows of Skyrim’s wilds. It works out; with only one bed roll between the two, one keeping watch and the other sleeping makes perfect sense.

Midnight, when its time for her to stir the sleeping jester and get a couple hours of rest, she kneels by the bedroll and reaches for his arm. The man sleeps in the motley; the sight makes her smile. She pauses when she hears him mumble in his throes of unconsciousness, “Sahk…”

Her hands hovers over his arm. She draws it back. _That is… _

“…kriimar…”

If she wasn’t so desperate for sleep, she might let Cicero enjoy whatever dream of the _dov _he’s lost in. She shakes him awake and raises a brow at his bewildered face. “Rise and shine, your turn for watch.”

“Yes, yes, Listener. Of course. Cicero is happy to serve the Listener.” The jester yawns. He picks up his cap—it’s fallen off sometime during his sleep—and puts it on. It’s a shame the hat covers so much of his lovely hair, but Kara doesn’t dwell on it as the two trade off and she’s afforded a moment of refuge in the bedroll.

She isn’t tormented by dreams—nightmares—of elves. The sleep is restless but without mental visions of her time as property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. Come morning, the two pack up the camp, cover up signs of the fire, and head south-west.

The further one gets to Markarth, the more likely it is to find the indigenous people of the Reach, the Forsworn, and their camps. The Listener vaguely recalls playthroughs where she visits Sky Haven Temple during _Skyrim_’s story quests. When it was a video game and she but a retail worker on Earth, she would take Esbern and Delphine through a Forsworn camp—usually as a dragon attacks overhead—in order to gain access to the Temple. Though she entertains the thought of repeating her past playthrough’s decisions to murder everyone in the camp, when she, Cicero and Shadowmere reach a cliff overlooking the camp she opts to let them live. _They _haven’t done anything wrong, as far as she is concerned the Forsworn have been wronged by the Empire and Stormcloaks alike.

“Don’t kill them unless they attack first.” She warns Cicero when she notices the jester fingering one of his ebony daggers a little too tightly.

“They can see us, Listener! Oh, ho, ho, they _can _see us,” the jester warns as she presses Shadowmere onward and makes to circle the camp on the cliffs flanking it. “Their souls would make such a pleasant offering to the Dread Father!”

“The third tenet, Keeper,” Kara’s voice is curt. He shuts up without further words.

Several hours in—and Cicero is right, the Forsworn know they are there and they watch with utmost concern for the faintest hint of hostility—Kara climbs off Shadowmere and pulls the dark steed to the side. Cicero doesn’t get off until she gives him a sharp look. The Listener pats Shadowmere’s head and smiles.

“Thank you, my friend. I will tell Lucien Lachance you are well when I summon him next.” The Dark Brotherhood member whispers softly, recalling another _wiki _page entry about the two’s history. “We must go on foot from here. I will call you by blood when it is time to ride again!”

Shadowmere huffs. As the Listener and Keeper alike back up, the mare gives them a parting glance before roaring and disappearing in clouds of dissipating darkness.

“Hmm, where does the Listener wish to go next?” The Keeper inquires a half hour later when he follows her along the edge of the cliffs.

She pauses and looks down at groups of Forsworn, all of which who stare back at her without fear. _Truly a powerful group of people, full of courage to look the Dark Brotherhood in the eye and not cower. _

“If Esbern is here—He’ll be at the entrance to the Temple. There’s a cave you enter to find it, but to get into the Temple itself requires a Dragonborn’s blood to unseal the door. If he’s gotten past Forsworn… He’ll be there, Cicero. I could shout to tell him I’m around but the Forsworn will view that as a sign of aggression. I’m guessing one of them recognizes our uniforms, or they would have attacked by now.” The Listener frowns.

“What if,” and the jester’s voice is _so _gleeful he could be jumping up and down and it wouldn’t surprise her. It doesn’t surprise her when she looks and confirms he’s dancing a solo jig to his own words. “We dance! Waltz through the camp? Dazzle and display the sweet, sweet actions!”

“That…” She pauses. A thought crosses her mind. _Wait. Didn’t Gabriella take my contract to Markath? That was—That was a while back, but… She got thrown into the mines. She said she was almost executed. What if she did the whole quest for the imprisoned Forsworn King while she was in there? _If events in the world happen without her knowing, then… It could be possible, surely, for Gabriella to have triggered Markath’s primary quest without her stepping foot into the mines.

Cicero is still dancing with himself when she waves him over.

“Do _not _attack unless they attack first. Don’t draw your blades unless they move to strike.” The Listener orders.

She gestures for the jester to follow her as the two begin climbing down the cliffs on one side of the camp. She hears the Forsworn converse in a language she doesn’t understand. A group run over and greet her when she jumps to the bottom, a dingy part of the coast before a river begins to run through the area the camp is built hanging over.

The Listener puts her hands up, palms out, and holds her breath as multiple Forsworn women stride forward. Two of them wear hide armor akin to what she’s seen in _Skyrim _as a video game, but one is donned in beautiful furs that wrap around her like a gown and cloak. The lady in furs strides forward and clasps two hands together. When she talks, she has a slight lisp, but her voice is calm and collected, “Brotherhood.”

_So Gabriella did trigger the quest. _The Listener nods in confirmation. “Greetings from the Dark Brotherhood.”

“You invade our Reach’s lands, Brotherhood. If not for the wishes of our king, we would slay you where you stood,” the woman ignores the greeting and eyes Kara and Cicero alike. “As we speak… Two parties of my people watch from the shadows, waiting and holding out for word or signal to end your lives and send you to the Void you crawl out of.”

The Listener doesn’t doubt it for a second.

“But King Madanach does not seek the Brotherhood’s demise. For you have no quarrel with the Reach people, with our Forsworn kin, save a contract bound in blood. Does such a contract exist, Brotherhood?” The woman raises a brow.

It dawns on the Dragonborn that the lady is wearing enchanted furs, not simply a beautiful piece of clothing for warmth. She recognizes the shimmer of enchants along bone jewelry and serene, spectacularly-woven cloth earrings. Rings of twisted wood imbued with the magic of black hagraven feathers dot her fingers. Kara swallows in acknowledgement of the power radiating from the lady; she becomes increasingly grateful she didn’t attack them—in retrospect, both her and Cicero would be dead in minutes even with the use of a thu’um or calling a _dov_.

“No. We are not here to send a soul to Sithis,” The Listener says without her voice cracking, though she knows the woman can detect her fear regardless. “I seek entrance to Sky Haven Temple.”

“You do. Maroisa foretold your arrival.” The woman runs a thumb over one of her wood rings. “I am pleased you aren’t liars, Brotherhood. Had you said otherwise,” and the lady offers a warm smile, full of light and beauty of a confidence Kara dreams of. “Your hearts would be taken from your chest and bodies laid to rest in the woods.”

_Maroisa. A Hagraven. _The magically-altered women who are said to carry talons and magic alike in their wake, full of power bestowed by their worship of old gods. Kara makes a note of it, it’s easier than thinking about the violent implications of the lady’s words in front of her.

“What is your rank, Brotherhood? To stray from your sanctuary—You are not new recruits,” the lady turns and walks, gesturing for the Listener and Keeper to follow. When Kara falls in line behind her, Cicero does the same, but the Listener can tell he is antsy about wanting to _stab, stab, stab. _

“I am the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, ear and vessel for which our unholy matron communes. It is her who whispers the wishes of the vengeful to the Brotherhood. It is through her a contract in blood is formed and an oath is made.” The Listener states as she and Cicero follow the woman.

More and more Forsworn—Reach people?—begin to flank the two Dark Brotherhood members as they are escorted across the camp, past working Forsworn individuals. Kara catches sight of a few discussing a map, of two sparring with grandiose, spiked wooden tools, and of the Hagraven she presumes is Maroisa far up by an altar back on the shoreline.

“And who is your friend, Listener of the Brotherhood?” The woman in furs states it as a question but it is a command.

“Keeper,” and it is all Cicero says and she thanks Sithis that he does not take the opportunity to sing or dance or stab.

“Listener and Keeper—Two honored guests. I am Vrechinn. Do not call me _queen, _for our leader is King Madanach, and the Hagravens who bless him with their approval. Do not call me _savage, _for I am of a people that have existed long before you dare step on these lands. Do not call me _lady, _for such a title is formality and the only formality we share is the blood we spill for our gods.” Vrechinn tilts her head. Thick, curly brown hair splays one side of her face. “When you were slitting the throat of an emperor, Maroisa received a vision from the Old Gods. It told her of your coming. It told her of your purpose.” Vrechinn’s eyes linger on Kara.

The Dragonborn swallows. “Yes. My purpose.”

“I do not _know _what it means to be called _consumer_, Listener. But Maroisa blesses you. She sees the marks of _Et’Ada _on your soul. You and your _dov _are marred by madness, drowning in indulgence.” Vrechinn calls over a Reachman, a man whose bare chest reveals no heart but a gaping wound where a _briarheart _pod lays. “Ohdon, send word to our King. Tell him our world soon begins.”

The man nods, his expression obscured by an elaborate and noble headdress donning his forehead. He looks almost like a general, and far more of a warrior than Commander Maro ever was.

The strangeness of it does not settle until Vrechinn and accompanying, talking Reachwoman walk the duo to the edge of the camp. There, the Listener spies a dark crevice in the side of a cliff. She hears running water. It clicks that _this _is the cave, that somewhere beyond there Esbern awaits. _Hopefully. Perhaps he knows what this woman means by ‘our world soon begins.’ _

_“Dovahkiin._” Vrechinn addresses her by the _dovah _tongue.

Kara stiffens and straightens upright, “Yes?”

“We will meet again one day. When we do,” Vrechinn looks to the side, at Cicero. “…Don’t bring a jester to my _home.”_

Cicero’s cheeky grin makes Kara want to rip her own hair out, but the lady simply nods. She isn’t sure if Vrechinn has a deeper meaning behind the words, or if she’s simply an individual who says things as they are, but she finds she can meditate on the sentiment later. She takes Cicero’s wrist, bows her head, and utters a quick thanks before pulling the Keeper through the dark, gloomy crack in the cliff. Water splashes beneath her feet as she forces Cicero to follow her at an increasingly fast pace. She doesn’t know when the panic ensues, but she finds herself _sprinting _further into the earth, sometimes down but often up, as the Listener _runs, runs, runs _and climbs and throws herself into the cave’s depths.

_She would have killed us if Gabriella hadn’t taken my contract. We should be dead. _The Listener feels herself stop in the darkness and she struggles to light a simple magelight spell. A ball of dim, hovering light attaches to one side of the cave. In the light she finds herself crying, sobbing, mourning at how close she was to _fucking everything up _and getting herself, her _dov_, and Cicero killed. She took a chance she couldn’t risk instead of looking for another way to the Temple. They would have all joined _Filre, Alysoin, _and _Leorn _in the Void or Myriad Realms or wherever it is their souls are claimed to.

“Listener—Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Cicero is very good and soothing and nice to be around. He pulls her into a hug and ruffles her hair and hums a tune she’s never heard before but likes. “Once, Cicero had a _contract _for an old fart who never left his home! Poor, poor Cicero had to wait an entire _month _before he could _stab, stab, stab _the man! Oh, it was awful, so awful! Incredibly awful, much like you are now, your tears. Sweet, kindly Listener should not cry. Cicero may have to speak more strange stories and Listener would not enjoy them.”

“I thought it was amusing.” Kara says softly. Her heart feels heavy. She feels guilty for nearly messing up. The what-if’s and anxiety in her head scream at her and make her shake.

Her magelight flickers out. She recasts the spell.

Cicero’s eyes are full of concern. He pulls her effortlessly into a dance in the darkness, and he gives her a faint smile as the two waltz a not-waltz across shallow streams and rocky ground. “We live. The old fart does not! No more sitting in mansions for him, no, no! He’s _dead._ But you and I are breathing, dancing—smiling?” He says with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. She can’t resist a smile, just for him. He grins and steals a kiss from her. “Sweet, kindly Listener is very strong.”

“Thank you.” The woman’s smile lingers.

When the two finish their dance, they continue through the cave. It’s quiet save for their footsteps, Cicero’s humming, and the trickling of the streams. Soon enough, Kara and Cicero both are climbing and clambering around, and crawling up increasingly tricky surfaces, corners, and thin bridges built by a group long ago. She recognizes the architecture as that of the _Blades, _the ancient group once responsible for protecting the emperors of Tamriel. The traps along the way have thankfully been disarmed, but the occasional arrows found in the wall hint that they were not pleasant to run into. As they climb higher in the cave, an opening in the cavern’s roof hints small rays of light through the shadows.

She sees Esbern before he sees her. She recognizes the bald, wrinkly bat’s face anywhere. He’s like a grape in her mind. The thought makes her smile and she can’t resist calling out, “Esbern! It’s been a while!”

But when he looks at her—she sees a malice reserved _specifically _for the Listener. She hears the conjuring of a massive, stormy entity known as a _storm atronach _long before she and Cicero jump and climb to the grand platform that houses the Blade’s veteran. The platform cuts into a massive chamber with an ornate, carved figurine in front of a divet in the stone. Symbols of ancient Nordic languages are cut from the face of the rock along the walls. The Blades’ veteran is a mess of bottles near the figurine, with a feeble camp fire and his skin hanging thinly over bones and lost weight.

“You,” Esbern’s eyes narrow. His voice is gruff, tired, weary. “Disgust me. Dragonborn.”

The Listener stiffens. She holds an arm out and catches Cicero before he finishes drawing his ebony blade and advancing on the old fart who _dare _disrespect the Dark Brotherhood’s Listener. Kara frowns. “Is this about me shouting you into submission at Kynesgrove? I won’t apologize for it.”

“No.” The elderly man hisses. Destruction magic crackles in one hand, held back only by decades of careful practice to avoid Thalmor detection. “That is a drop in the pond.”

Kara grimaces. She doesn’t like the cryptic nature of his words. “Please get out with it.”

The Blade’s veteran strides up to her, shorter from a slight hunchback but every bit as angry as the storm atronach veering in his wake. Esbern’s beard has become thinly and frayed, Kara realizes, and bags under his eyes hint at the number of drinks she smells on his breath. He’s a mess, but so is she when she hears him say, “Delphine is dead because of _you._”

The Listener stiffens. “That’s—That’s not possible. I—I don’t recall that—”

“To think a Dragonborn would be the one to bring the Blades to an end. Look at this place. There’s no point to it anymore. Thousands of years of history ended. You did that to us, to the Blades.” Esbern spits at her feet, turns, and walks back to his meager camp. “Truly _dov _runs in your spirit, then.”

“Esbern, by Oblivion, tell me what you are talking about.” Kara grits her teeth. Her patience has limits, even for the old man.

“How do you not remember?” The Blades’ veteran looks at her and narrows his eyes. He sits by a fire and curses. “They strung her up like a pig in Riverwood. They said Skyrim was a step closer to being rid of the Blades’ scourge that haunts the region. You… You don’t remember?”

_The time we were imprisoned. _It crashes into her and color drains from her face. Her mouth opens and she hears Cicero say things she doesn’t register. _The time we were imprisoned. Did I do that? Did I tell them where to find Delphine? Did I tell them she was in Riverwood? I can’t remember. I can’t—_Her eyes become dull and glossy as she stares aimlessly, lost in thoughts and feelings and shock she can’t place. She knows the answers to the questions; she was the property of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, tool of Head Justicar Ondolemar and Interrogator Rulindil. She has no doubts in her mind that she told them _precisely _where Delphine had hid herself away.

“What have I done?” Kara whispers to herself. She clutches her head. Her vision begins to spin and her breathing hastens. Her body shudders. “I told them _everything _about Delphine. I—” Her eyes fill with tears. _I killed her. I killed her. She died because of me. I betrayed her. I did the same thing Astrid did to the Brotherhood! To Falkreath! _

It’s too much for the Dragonborn to process. She begins to cry. She feels herself detach from her body, a defeated and horrified soul that flickers into the depths of her mind. She can sense Sahkriimar stir and rise; she’s grateful when the _dov _takes over.

Sahkriimar comes to standing in a cave with an old grape on one end and a jester—_how does he keep showing up_—behind her. She narrows her eyes. Kara is a conversationalist; she has shit to do. “_Gol hah, _where is the horn?”

The man stiffens and his arms drop to his side. He rises to her feet, moves to a pack tucked in an alcove of the stone, and retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller. He walks it to her and she puts it in her pack.

The woman feels a tap on her shoulder and against better judgement she eyes Cicero. “What is it, _joor_?”

“Light’s fading.” It’s the assassin that says it, not the fool. He points at the crack in the cavern where the small rays of light have diminished greatly.

“Already that time? By Oblivion, that annoys me.” Sahkriimar turns back to Esbern. She glances from him to the figurine. “What’s this place, anyways? This carving-thing? I know Kara probably has a whole explanation loaded up but she isn’t here and I need to hear it from you before I get impatient.”

“It is a ‘blood seal,’ one of the lost Akaviri arts. Triggered by your blood, Dragonborn.” Esbern tells her in a monotone voice.

_Some joorre made this? Blood seals? Almost impressive. But, no, beyn, Sahkriimar, do not compliment the joorre. _Sahkriimar’s eyes narrow. She strides forward, whips out a Daedric dagger, and slices her wrist open. The blood slowly drips from her hand and fills in the indents. The figurine begins to shake and the cave _roars _as mechanisms activate within the walls. The figurine is moved backwards; it reveals the temple entrance, grand and beautiful in the darkness. A meager flames spell sizzles in the palm of Sahkriimar’s hand as she stands up.

“We will stay here for the evening.” The _dov _woman states. She looks over her shoulder, at Cicero first and then to Esbern. “…He had the horn. Gave us the horn. He is no longer necessary. The group he’s a part of—It is dead, gone, _over_. This world shall sing of the Blades no longer.”

“Oh, ho, ho, is silly Listener decreeing a call for blood?” The dagger is drawn and Cicero’s steps are a _dance _of glee to Esbern’s motionless body.

Sahkriimar smiles faintly. She enjoys the blood lust he shows. “Send him home to Sithis. Show him the mercy only a member of the Dark Brotherhood can grant.”

She hears Cicero’s hum. The thud of Esbern’s body hitting the floor is positively beautiful.

The two don’t explore too far into the Temple. She finds, to her surprise, Cicero acts on his best behavior and gives her zero reason to snap or scowl at him. He pulls her into only one brief dance, but he otherwise keeps a distance. If she weren’t already calling him a _hypothetical mate _in her mind it would be alright. She could live without thinking about hypothetical lines being crossed. But the two have already engaged in a rudimentary courtship rite. Even if he is a _joor_, the ancient customs of _dovah _are a dominating influence on her actions. It is difficult to not think about the innate behaviors ingrained in her head. It is harder not to think about them when every time she so much catches a glimpse of the man the thought of his soft hair and annoyingly short kisses returns.

In the evening, in a grand hall near a spectacular monument carving known as _Alduin’s Wall, _she gives the jester a chance to sleep. Normally one of two must keep watch but she knows none can bypass the blood seal after it shuts. Cicero is safe in Kara’s bedroll; Sahkriimar finds herself dozing off in a chair.

She has a dream.

In this dream they are not the body of Kara-Sloan-She, but that of their true draconic self. They are _Sahkriimar, _a being of the sky, destined to rule and ravage the landwalkers below them. They are as beautiful as they are devastating; they are a dragon by nature and the innate call for blood fuels their actions. They are aware. They are not inept. They know they lack the one trait of landwalkers the inferior species’ use to show _consideration. _It is the ability to withhold themselves, their tempers, and their rage. It is the ability to restrain their own actions. It is something the dragon wants but lacks.

The knowledge they seek is not common to landwalkers or those of the sky. The knowledge they _need _is absent from Mundus. They need it, yet they must make an offering, a deal, to obtain the awareness and order and _control _over themself they seek. It is the true act of domination: to dominate ones own soul and show mindfulness to ones own pursuits. They yearn for it, bleed for it, and need it so, _so _much they are willing to do anything.

In this dream, Sahkriimar sees a shining, steel figure. The individual is nothing short of royalty in the power the figure radiates. Sahkriimar watches their own body rise to meet the individual, the royalty, the _Prince_. But no matter how hard they think, they cannot make out the words they speak when they kneel at the Prince’s side.

It’s a memory of the past, and it wakes Sahkriimar up with a start.

She gasps and shudders. Cold sweat drips down her forehead. She wipes her head and looks out across the darkness, where only a meager heap of the evening’s fire pit remains as embers. Sahkriimar relaxes at the sight of Cicero, just as asleep as before. She stands but does not wake him to take over sleeping. She is a _dov, _and she does not need sleep the same as mortals!

She quietly rises and makes for the outdoors. The grand hall has a set of stairs on both sides leading directly to the upper level of the Temple. It is there she knows the set of double-doors exist to the outside. She slips through them and lets them fall shut behind her with a _soft click._

The night sky is beautiful. She has a gorgeous view of a clear sky with thousands of stars present. Soft gray clouds roll across the horizon in the distance. She inhales the crisp, cold air and steps into the Temple courtyard. Ancient training mannequins are hidden underneath a stone archway. She walks across the courtyard and stops at the edge of it, where it dips and cuts off to reveal the _very high _cliff face that drops directly into a river below. The Temple is built directly into a massive cliff, practically a small mountain, and the Forsworn camp is visible at its base. Sahkriimar’s eyes narrow. _They look so small from up here. It is among the clouds I truly belong. _

She sits. She feels too antsy to sleep and she doesn’t want to harass Cicero. She lets herself sit on the edge of the cliff with the breeze blowing through the body’s hair. It’s a peaceful moment, and for once peace doesn’t feel _too _wrong as her thoughts settle and she watches the auroras overhead. Beautiful blues, greens, and reds make her heart sing and yearn. She wants the sky. She misses it. She feels once more like a caged animal and it frustrates and humiliates her to consider how far she’s fallen from power.

“Now the sky mocks me.” She won’t cry, but the bitterness seeps through her painfully _joor _voice. _“Beyn, _Sahkriimar. You should not think foolish things.”

“Think what?” And it’s sleepy and sudden but she knows instantly who the voice belongs to. Part of her expects him to pull her into a dance, but instead the jester makes with sitting next to her.

Her eyes narrow. “Go sleep, _joor_. You _joorre _need your rest.”

“No.” He stays.

Sahkriimar groans. “You push your luck. _Beyn, mey._”

“Scorn, fool.” Cicero translates the words and yawns. He offers a half-smile, marred by his own drownsiness. “You are upset. Silly Listener cannot hide secrets from the Keeper. It is poor, sleepy, yawning Cicero’s job to keep the silly Listener.”

The sentence sounds like it should continue, but it does not. The cold night air makes her shiver. She doesn’t mean to scoot closer to him, but she does, and she realizes that perhaps she _does _mean to scoot closer after all. It’s hard to make sense of foreign _joor _emotions and thoughts. It isn’t anything like what she knows as a _dov_.

When he leans a yawning, tired head on her shoulder, she stiffens. She can feel _it_ again; she knows the feelings are erratic and scarcely held-back under the surface. The last time, right before Emperor Titus Mede the II died, she had almost lost herself entirely the rush of euphoria and the flames that emerged when he kissed her. Just the touch of his head against her is enough to make her abdomen twist and coil. She—perhaps too gently—pushes him back and makes to stand.

“I would like to ask,” and it’s the assassin, not the jester, unless both are there, but regardless the voice makes her stop and look down. She watches him stand and stares the assassin in the face. “Did I upset you?”

It’s a weird question. She feels it cling to the back of her throat but no hiccups or coughs or sneezing comes. She frowns and averts her gaze. “You are very strange, _joor_. I am not sure how to feel toward you. You as… yourself. _Mey, _I am truly a _mey_, to think so much over a _joor_. I do not appreciate you hiding in my head. Your _zii _is annoying, it reeks of _mid mul. _Loyalty, strength.”

“You wanted your mate to be equal.” The assassin states softly.

Heat creeps into her face. “That—That was not a _real _act of—A real courting rite. _Beyn, beyn, beyn, _I would defeat you if we fought again. You are _joor, _but I am _dov_. _Dov wahlaan fah rel, _Cicero.”

“Cicero is uncertain what that means.” The jester yawns. His smile is gone, his eyes are attentive and surely on her. She tries not to look at him but the temptation is overwhelming and she catches a glimpse of the softness in the dark hazel irises. “Will silly Listener explain?”

“Dragons were created for domination,” Sahkriimar translates quietly. “_Dovah _were made to rule, to conquer, to dominate the landwalkers. You are one of those who walk the ground. I will one day return to the skies. You cannot court the air from the ground.”

“Oh, ho, _ho_, if it is simply a matter of air and soil doing rift-raft with each other then Cicero knows _precisely _what to do! Hmm, yes, let’s see,” he’s more awake and alert now. He snatches up a handful of dirt in one hand, throws it in the air, and stares at Sahkriimar with a marvelous grin on his face. The soil crashes back to the ground behind him. “The Keeper has demonstrated a union between the land and sky!”

“That is not how things work, _dii mey._” Sahkriimar states without pause. Her eyes widen at her own words and she clamps a hand over her mouth and hisses under her breath. She snaps at him, “That was an accident, _joor_.”

“The silly Listener makes a lot of accidents around the Keeper.” Cicero observes. He’s not wearing his hat, she realizes. It’s… unusual to see him without it. With the cap, nothing protects his soft hair or irritably fragile cranium. A dragon could crush his head in an instant.

He’s a handsome man. Too annoyingly squishy, easily smashed under a solid tail or dropped thousands of feet from the air. She frowns. She doesn’t enjoy the thought of either of those things, and the fact bloodshed doesn’t excite her worries her more than she wants to admit. She stares at him intently.

“Sahkriimar.” When he says the name, something twists in her gut.

“Why didn’t my _gol hah _work on you before? In Dawnstar,” the _dov _asks. She’s tense, and she’s certain both know why. “Man cannot resist bowing before the power of the thu’um.”

“You said _don’t _at the beginning of it. Silly Listener does not always think through her words.” The man huffs.

“Is it really that simple?” Her fists clench and un-clench. She stares at him and narrows her eyes. “_Joor. _You frustrate me.”

“If we fight now, does it count?” The jester blinks at her, ignoring every word she throws at him in favor of the question. “Will it count as _dovah dancing_?”

“You’ll lose.” The _dov _woman states.

“Does it count?” The man is nothing but insistent, as stubborn as she is _dov_.

She could prove once and for all it was an _accident_ he ever beat her in the first place. The man is not on equal level; she is a _dov_, made to dominate, and she does not take mates so easily. The _dov _meets his eyes. He’s challenging her. “Fine, but I am not picking you up a—”

He’s on her in an instant, right foot slipping behind her ankles and hands shoving her backward in tandem with the motion. She doesn’t have a chance to think before she’s flat on her back and he’s on her, his legs pinning her arms to her side while one elbow crushes her windpipe. She can’t breathe. She watches as he effortlessly slides _her _Daedric dagger from its sheathe at her waist. The man flips the blade over and rests it across her throat. She still can’t breathe, but she can stare.

He alleviates the pressure on her throat and she gasps for oxygen. His eyes are narrow, focused, and very much the assassin of the man he is. _“Gol hah, _Sahkriimar.”

“I’m not _shouting_ you to win.” The _dov _woman hisses. “I—”

It dawns on her. He’s giving her the opportunity to say no, to win, to force him to back off and drop the subject for good. It’s an out she doesn’t want. She finds herself at a loss for words and simply stares at him. He’s too nimble and fast and annoyingly alluring for her to throw the man off. She doesn’t want him to leave. If anything, the strength of his form and the softness of his flesh makes her want him to _stay. _She doesn’t want to call him a hypothetical mate when _mate _sounds so good and right and real.

“I belong to the sky.” She states. “One day I will leave, and you cannot follow, Keeper.”

The jester’s amused eyes linger on her, light and twinkling and just as capable of splitting throats and gutting men as she is. _“Hmmm._ Cicero would like to know if that day is today, _or_ tomorrow, _or_ if the Listener has time available right _now_.”

The Listener huffs. “It’s not today.”

“Better not be tomorrow,” and he kisses her.

It’s a wonderful thing to her body. The rush of adrenaline that comes from the man’s lips on her own is so tantalizing and addictive she might never give it up if given the chance. When the man frees her arms from being pinned at her side, she instinctively reaches for him. Her hands go to his hair and she gasps and breathes in shallow breaths at the sensations she cannot help but fall into. Every last second is as needy as the past and she is _beyond _need and desire and wants; at that moment she is not a spirit inhibiting a _joor _form but that of a _dov _about to stake a mate. Her mind made itself up when she first met him.

She feels his breath hitch against her. It’s a pleasing noise; she grapples the man and the two rollover and trade places. The jester’s cap is off, gone, nonexistent, and it makes it _so _easy for her to run hands through his hair and feel out his scalp. He’s got hair of Aedra and a grin worthy of the sky. She pulls back just enough to admire the Imperial’s vivid, eccentric, perfectly impractical eyes.

“_Mey, _it’s not tomorrow—” The _dov _exhales and is kissing him again.

She wants every bit of him. She craves it. It is in her body, her blood, her _dov _soul. She reeks of need and wants and desires that only the fool can provide. No other _joor _can captivate and amuse her like he can, no other _joor _can pull her into dances and sing her merry tunes. No other _joor _is worthy of the _dov_’s submission. It is the most vulnerable a _dov _can be to their mate, because she knows the physical form is an intimate existence and to connect in such a deep way spells out pleasure, pain, power, and a grievous desperation. _Dovah_ do not simply mate; they mate in combat, in fire, in ice, in war, in love and in pursuit of one as worthy to them as they are of themselves.

“Keeper,” she cradles her head in the crook of his neck as he continues to kiss all his lips can reach. The woman feels her abdomen tighten as she pines for the jester’s touch. He lets his hands trail up and down her body and it feels better than Aetherius itself ever could.

“Sahkriimar,” the name is uttered between kisses, touches, desire. “Sahkriimar—”

_Sah-Krii-Mar. _She recalls the memory of the jester, the assassin, the fool, of all three at once saying the syllables and speaking the name so perfectly her heart nearly jumped out of its pathetic _joor _flesh. The way Cicero speaks it now sets her heart on _fire _and drips ice in her chest. She writhes against him and speaks curses in _dov _tongue, all directed at the jester’s motley and incessant attire. The clothes are still _on _and she isn’t able to rip them off when he’s moving his lips across her neck and nipping her skin. Part of her thinks he does it on purpose, to extract every last bit of air from her in breathless moans, but the other part of her simply doesn’t care when he can use his lips, teeth, tongue like _that_.

The two shift and trade places. The duo is closer to a pendulum, one side constantly trying to overwhelm the other. It satiates and spurs a greater desire to rule, dictate, and destroy, all of which are _highly _pleasing to her innate _dov _nature. The Keeper keeps a lust of his own; she sees it in the gleam of his eyes, the curve of his lips, and the control of his movements. When he has her beneath him and the courtyard dirt and grass pressed against her back, he hovers over her with eyes greedier than any _dov_. He’s quick as the wind—a whirlwind of blades without the edge—in his fingers finding and reaching for clasps in her armor, laces to be undone, and ushering the clothes off with minor squirming on her half. The feeling of _joor slen, _mortal flesh, when it hits the cold night air is arousing. She hisses at him because he still wears clothes, the _mey! _

_“Beyn, _I will tear that motley off you, _dii mey_,” the _dov _woman threatens but all it does is make the jester laugh. He stops to kiss her and pulls any scowl from her lips. Her breath hitches at his hands going over her torso, up and down the skin, and she grits her teeth at the fact he’s purposely avoiding every area of sweet, sensitive flesh.

“Silly Listener forgets poor, poor Cicero is _easily_ distracted by the sweet, lovely Listener, _hmmm,_” the man hums and draws back. His eyes lock with her and he watches her while fingers scale her abdomen and tug the waistband of the shrouded leggings she dons. “Thinking about today and tomorrow and right now and later and all the fun—”

“You press your luck, _joor, _talking boldly when you are still dressed,” and the _dov _woman hisses and makes for the top piece of his motley. The Keeper’s hands snatch her own away and squeeze them. Her brows furrow and she cranes her head to reach and bite his lips. “—_dii mey_—”

“My fool, _dii dov,”_ the Keeper retorts. He can’t shout the words, that much Sahkriimar knows, but his enunciation of _dov _tongue is satisfactory for her to melt against him once he kisses her again.

If not for the raging flood of deep-seeded lust and possession inside of her, she’d make do with kissing him all night. His lips alone are worthy of the wind, the air, the sky, and she’d gladly take him as one of her own mates if she was not bound by _joor _flesh and he a _dov _versus man. The intimate dance the two do is meager compromise for two vastly different worlds; she is the sky and he is the ground and for a moment they both walk the horizon line. His hands rustle her hair and she sits up with him straddling her while the two embrace once more. Her hands make to the motley shirt and she—more gently than she wants, how she yearns to tear it off and shred such material that dares hide his skin—helps pull it off the Keeper.

He laughs at her disgruntled face. “Ho, ho, _ho, _silly Listener has never seen a man take off a shirt?”

“I have half the mind to burn it to a crisp, _dii mey_,” the _dov _woman huffs and tosses it aside. “Equal playing ground, _joor_.”

“For now,” Is all the jester mumbles against her lips. The two become locked in their dance once more; they’re a tangle of pants and limbs and moans as both press against the other’s form. As much as she wants to press further, part of her is inherently stubborn in wanting him to submit and comply and _obey_.

It won’t happen, she knows this from the two’s self-proclaimed _dovah dancing, _she cannot wrestle him worth a shit and he’s more than capable of pinning her if he wants. But she wants to try. Her pride of a _dov _compels her in every inch of flesh she bites or decadent flesh she sucks on. Her nails are no claws and they will never be the talons of a true _dov_, of her actual form, but she rakes them down the jester’s back regardless. There are scars in his skin and it hints at the assassin he truly is, but her thoughts become lost when a scant moan fills her ears. She enjoys letting her hands linger on the scar tissue; she finds it _euphoric _when his body tenses or melds into her touch. When her hands dip too low, the assassin grabs her wrists and shoves her back down into the earth. She hisses at the action and writhes; all she wants is to elicit the same wanton sounds from his lips, to hear the submission in his breathlessness, and to spur the man to beg for her.

But he, like her, seeks the same. She can sense it when he leans down and his breath fans her lips. She can feel it when the man’s groin bumps her waist, or his breathing hitches in his throat.

“Silly Listener,” The jester’s voice dips in tone and pitch and into the need swirling around the two. “Cicero’s job is to _keep_. He is well-trained in the art of keeping Listeners,” and it’s the assassin again, the one that makes her shiver impatiently, and his hands release hers but she doesn’t dare move as he trails hands to her breasts and undoes the meager garments holding them back. “In fact—I’ve practiced specifically for this one.”

His mouth on one breast has her arching her back into him. For all the _dov _pride, all the _dov _need, all the _dov _everything, all the thoughts mesh into the desire that has her singing his name. Her cries are quiet but the Keeper knows how to _keep _and soon she’s panting, mumbling _dov _curses and _dov _praise, and wringing his hair in her hands tight enough she might rip chunks out if she’s not careful. His tongue is a godsend and not even the Divines compare when it traces one nipple and slowly enshrines the perky flesh. Her mind is a jumble of surging emotions and arousal; her legs squirm, and she struggles to pull him against her more. Nothing is close enough, nothing is good enough, nothing is worthy but _him_ and he needs to _get on with it_ before she screams and begs and pleads.

She’s a breathless mess against him when he draws back. A hand fondly cups one breast before it’s gone, too, and she feels him draw back enough to pull her leggings down. She practically kicks the clothes off and feels her boots fall. She shivers from the cool mountain air—there’s snow on the ground at the cliff’s edge, what they’re doing is positively ludicrous—but the heat in her belly keeps her warm. She clings to the man over her and hears him hum. He’s soothing; his hands ruffle her hair and his kisses leave her mouth ajar and yearning for more. Everything about his body and soul and being appeals to her. She shuts her eyes and lets him lead the two’s dance. Instead of clothes rustling, instead of the sound of him taking the _damn pants _off, she opens her eyes to find him lowering his lips to her chest. His kisses trail down to her navel and his eyes lock unto hers as he goes lower, lower, lower.

She feels her entire face light up crimson at the realization of what he’s doing. The Keeper pulls the small undergarments lining her groin free. Sahkriimar holds her breath but when his tongue falls unto her pelvis and falls to her clit, she throws her head back and yells his name. Her hips move against him instinctively; she finds her patience dies and she’s a mess of incoherent syllables as the man’s hands hold her thighs apart and he lounges and laps at what she offers. _Dov _pride be damned, she has no resolve to make him submit when she is a _mess_ from the things he does to her.

When his tongue pushes into her she sees nothing but the stars in the sky. Her body shakes and shudders; she sounds out every syllable of his name a hundred different ways. Her legs press around his head, but his hands keep her from crushing him with her thighs. When her body rides a climax, she sings his name and melts into a mess of tremors, shakes, and pants beneath him. Her legs fall limp to the ground, and he climbs back up to meet her face with a sweet, proud smile. “Lovely, lovely, Sahkriimar. You look lovely like this.”

“You’d look lovelier with your breeches off,” the _dov _woman mumbles sluggishly, body still lost in the pleasure of her orgasm.

“I thought,” and whether it’s the jester or assassin or both doesn’t matter because either way Cicero looks utterly amused and happy and peaceful when he looks down at her. “_Dovah _did not like to submit?”

“They don’t—” She writhes beneath him when he bites her neck. “—_Dii mey,_ you have a death wish—"

“To not seek the Void is to invoke the wrath of Sithis,” Cicero recites the words with a hum. His bites become sweet caresses and soft kisses. She fingers his hair and exhales as he goes on. “If this _mey _dies tonight—It will be a death well-received. This foolish Keeper will dance his way into the Void.”

“Always dancing,” Sahkriimar whispers. “Even in death.”

“—But _dovah dancing _remains Cicero’s favorite,” and the Keeper peers at her with eyes that speak enough. She can’t hold back a snort; he laughs at the sound before pressing kisses on her again. The man’s breeches finally come off and the under garment follows.

She could be shy or bashful but she really _isn’t_. She’s so fervent and focused on getting _him _in her that the _dov _woman writhes to get on with it. It must tickle in part, at one-point Cicero’s chortles ring out from her trying to hold the man still. She huffs at him and he steals a kiss before parting her legs and gleefully sliding their hips together.

The _dov _woman tenses and shifts against him as he pushes inside her. His name hangs on her lips and she mumbles it into the night. Her body shivers from cold and nerves.

The jester—_dii mey, _her fool—hums faintly. He’s either a patient lover or simply astute to the fact she’s not used to bedding _joor_, because he doesn’t move right away. He rests against her and his hair tickles her chin. He waits for her to tell him she’s comfortable. Alternatively, the _dov _woman thinks in the haze of physical stimulation, he simply wants her to beg for it. She might call him _mate_, or will call him mate, but her pride is a deep part of her. Her hands find his face and she ever-so-carefully tilts his head to face her; their eyes lock and Sahkriimar struggles to think from the connection.

_“…Dii mey,”_ the _dov _tells him. “You can move.”

_Gods, _she needs him to move. Just the slightest shift of the two’s joined hips are enough to make her gasp and whine and hiss for more. The jester steals a kiss from her. “Just thinking, mm,” the man kisses her chin. “Listener looks lovely from this angle. So, so lovely. Better than the sharpest blade—”

The first roll of his hips is unexpected. She barks at him, growls, and wraps arms around his neck. When he laughs at her greed and lust, she sinks her teeth into his bare shoulder and leaves a mark to show she’s been there. The fool is not a fool any longer; the assassin—and all of them are wonderfully, beautifully Cicero, all at the same time—grunts against her and pushes her against the ground. The Keeper’s hands come up and he pulls her into a deep kiss before pushing her legs apart and rocking into her. She grits her teeth to hold back her own sounds of pleasure. but the next thrust has her singing wanton moans and needy cries. Every smack of the two’s bare skin against the other makes her noises louder and her body more heated. The curl in her abdomen becomes tightly wound, a coil, and she writhes and squirms against her Keeper in desperation to make him move faster.

He’s willing to comply at a price; she howls his name and screams for him when the noises become erratic, sudden, and imbalanced. His hands grip her hips, and he holds her tightly as their bodies pull and press and slam. Her _dov _resolve to make him submit is gone; she sees him as the one in control, the one who leads the intimacy, and she lets herself embrace the vulnerability of submission for just a moment. Her mind blanks with only his name and his touch and the feeling of him inside her. Her hips accept him effortlessly. The Listener feels his grasp on her tighten and she buries her head in his chest as the feeling of their closeness, connection, desire, lust, _adoration _build to a precipice. The two cross the line together; when his hips connect with hers she orgasms with his name a pleading whisper rather than a roar. She submits to him; the trust in her chest boils over and wraps around her like a soft breeze. She clings to him; the overwhelming emotions of the moment leave her crying out for him at his climax, an utter mess inside her. She doesn't want to let him go. She wants to stay like that, with him, forever and a day, until time itself is but an echo and the two nothing more than dancing souls in the sky. It takes a moment for her to realize he's called her name in the orgasm. Every last syllable lights her body on fire but the mortal form is tired. 

_Stay? _She can’t bring herself to say the words, but her eyes betray the question and its longing. The man—Keeper, jester, assassin, fool—smiles faintly and pulls her into a kiss. He settles with her on the ground, bodies scarcely interlocked with their clothes strewn around them. His arms wrap around her and he presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Better than the sharpest blade,” the jester continues where he left off before, and she shuts her eyes and listens to the words. “So soft, soft, _soft_—Silly Listener acts so tough and rocky, but she is softer than the sky—”

“I’m not a cloud, _dii mey._” She whispers against him.

“Better than one,” The jester curls against her and presses the two together. It’s not sexual in nature, merely a need to hold and feel and know the other is present. She smiles faintly. She can hear the smile in _his _voice when he kisses her ear and whispers. _“Dii dov,_ Sahkriimar.”


	38. too mortal for a prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what kara finds on the throat of the world is a scheme she is too mortal to understand.

She dreams of a mountain high above the clouds. It is a seamless dream of rolling white clouds, frenzied snowstorms, and beautiful, glistening snowflakes and ice crystals. She dreams of men in robes whose voices cause the earth to shake and bells to ring. She dreams of guiding smiles and a warm place to lay her head. She dreams of the shout that clears the skies, hits the heavens, and allows her to go onward. She dreams of the Grandmaster of the Greybeards, the ancient and pacifistic Paarthurnax who devoted himself to the Way of the Voice in hopes of curbing the innate nature of _dovah_. She dreams of his kind eyes, the wisdom of his hoarse voice, and the joy he expresses when he takes to the skies.

She dreams of a man. It is not Sam Guevenne or Cicero or Veezara. It is no one she knows. He is a man of Imperial descent with heavy lines in his face and glowing white eyes akin to _Sahkriimar_’s true form. She dreams of this man in his two-hued suit, of the man and his strange staff, of the man and his gleaming, chaotic smile. She dreams of him standing on the Throat of the World and of him staring off the edge into the precipice of Skyrim. She dreams of his curt remarks, his scolding, his criticisms, and above all else—She dreams of his laughter, his cruel, cruel laughter, for it is truly that which she cannot hope to understand.

She dreams of the man at the top of the world and of herself at its edge. She envisions herself standing, looking down, and the voice of a man of royalty whispering into her ears.

Kara wakes up in the courtyard of the Sky Haven Temple.

She’s not surprised by what she finds. The state of her and Sahkriimar’s conjoined body is only confirmation to her suspicion on the _dov_ spirit’s affection for the Keeper. Though Cicero apologizes at least a hundred different times, she shushes him and assures him it’s all right. Truthfully, if she had more time—and wasn’t _sore, _she doesn’t want to know the details of their night escapade, but the fact remains—Kara shares the sentiment. She too holds affection for the Keeper, and from her perspective she sees him hold the same for them both. There is no jealousy in her stomach, nothing but a faint warmth that Sahkriimar has warmed up to someone so much.

What bothers her is the sorrow in her heart when she tells Cicero they have to part ways. It’s at the split of two roads, where one heads north to the Pale and the other continues south in the vague direction of Falkreath. The jester asks her not to go yet, to come back, to see the Night Mother and calm Veezara and everyone, but she hushes him with a stolen kiss of her own and shoos him and Shadowmere on. The two disappear up the road while she seeks out an isolated place to summon a _dov _of her own.

_“Od-Ah-Viing!”_ The shout of _Snow-Hunter-Wing _rings loud and true in her ears. A great rumble stirs the soil under her feet, and she grins at the large, beautiful dragon that roars at her from the sky.

One Bend Will shout later, she and Odahviing are on their way to High Hrothgar.

It’s a beautiful place. She hasn’t forgotten her time as a student of the monks, a time which feels so long ago. She’s uncertain how to feel at the horn in her pack. Her head hurts to think of poor Delphine, of the woman she sold out and betrayed, but those thoughts disperse once Master Arngeir greets her and welcomes her inside High Hrothgar’s ancient stone walls. The monk isn’t too happy she’s taken up a job at the Dark Brotherhood, but she knows he respects her too much as _Dragonborn _to say anything beyond a simple nod and grunt of acknowledgement.

_Simply one of those hero things you wouldn’t get, Arngeir, _she imagines the conversation would go.

“I have the horn,” She smiles faintly when she hands the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller over. She doesn’t look forward to the trek up the mountain, but Master Arngeir’s smile soothes her worries.

_Strange to think two years ago I wanted to put this quest off. How could I grow tired of these fellows? They’re possibly the nicest individuals in Skyrim, save… No, they are the nicest. _She grins. Kara feels utterly bashful when the Greybeard calls over the other three monks to say hello.

The ground shakes under the four’s feet as one-by-one Master Borri, Master Einarth, and Master Wulfgar greets her with, _“Dovahkiin…” _

In the distance comes the ringing of four bells.

Kara bows her head respectfully. She smiles at each of them and, after the three return to their meditation and she’s left alone with Master Arngeir, she turns to the elderly man and notes the deeply heavy bags under his eyes. “It’s not my place, Master Arngeir, but,” the Dragonborn paues. “You look ill.”

“I grow old, Dragonborn. I may not have many years left. But you are not to worry about me; I am but a man who seeks greater understanding of the Voice,” the pale-skinned monk smiles pleasantly. He’s the closest figure in the world she can think of to a father, save her actual deity—Sithis.

The Dragonborn tilts her head to one side. “The _dovahkiin _is allowed to worry. _Mey, _you are modest.”

“I cannot speak such words so easily, Dragonborn. Nor do I know them all. You appear to be more confident in their usage since we last met,” Arngeir switching the topic doesn’t escape her notice, but she leaves it alone. “I admire your abilities once again. You truly possess the gift.”

“Do I?” For a moment she stops and frowns. Her eyes avert to the side and she throws the idea out there. “I cannot help but wonder sometimes if it is my _dov _that has it, Master Arngeir.”

“Your—Ah, yes, your Dragon Blood?” The man gestures for her to follow as he walks out of High Hrothgar’s warmth and into the chilly wilds of the outer courtyard.

“It’s all hypothetical, Master Arngeir.” She doesn’t know if _he _knows or not, and she won’t until she reaches Paarthurnax and questions him for confirmation. “What if my _Dragon Blood _is in fact a separate soul? Perhaps—Even their own entity. A separate soul squeezed into the space as my own, unifying my _joor slen_—ahem, my mortal flesh—and their own immortal _dov_ aspects?”

“It’s an interesting thought. I have considered it, truly, I have, but—” Master Arngeir stops short at a massive archway. Snow spirals around him, and twenty feet up the path is a wall of horrific winds and flurries. The Greybeard’s smile is kind and his eyes are bright when he looks to Kara. “I think you are too much for one soul, let alone two, Dragonborn. Your tenacity and energy precede you. If you were not in such rush—I know Master Borri seeks to teach you more words of power. All of us Greybeards have words to tell you, Dragonborn, words that should wait until you are not besieged by duties.”

“Perhaps when I begin the descent down the mountain. I’m not,” she bites her tongue. “I’m not in too much of a rush.”

“It is a thought.”

“Yes, it is. Master Arngeir,” in the back of her head she thinks back to when the storylines and quests of the Skyrim world first began to mess up. She thinks about how the things she said to Cicero prompted the Dark Brotherhood’s quests. She thinks about how she, when she was a consumer, altered and consumed the world of _Skyrim _to the state it is now. And for a moment she considers it again, she thinks about how the world might mess up if she goes ahead and shouts the words of Summer, Spring, and Sky in_ dovah _tongue. But she restrains herself, smiles and looks at the monk before her. “How will I get to the summit?”

“Follow me.” The Greybeard smiles, turns, and begins to march up to the wall of frigid frost and powerful gales. “I will show you how to open the path. You wish to speak to Paarthurnax?”

“Now that you mention it—”

“I am not sure you are ready, Dragonborn,” he stops five feet from the sheet of a blizzard howling and busying itself in the air. “But I sense your resolve. You will find a means to talk to him one way or another. I cannot keep you from that path. Here, the path to Parthuurnax and the summit lie beyond this archway. I will show you how to open the way.”

She closes her eyes and smiles at the nostalgia the words bring.

_“Lok… Vah… Koor!” _It takes momentous effort for the elder to shout out the thu’um into the blizzard. Three words alone are difficult; when she looks at him she sees sweat on his brow. In the distance, a bell rings from how the words shake the ground.

The wall of the storm evaporates, and clear, beautiful blue skies look down on the two.

“I would grant you my understanding of Clear Skies—But, Dragonborn, I sense it would do you no good. For your Dragon Blood breathes in knowledge of it already. Use it wisely. Clear Skies will blow away the blizzard, but only for a short time. The path to Paarthurnax and the summit is a perilous one, and not to be treaded lightly. Keep moving, stay focused on your goal, and you will reach the summit.” Arngeir nods and smiles at her.

She has a feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she’s not going to see him again. She doesn’t know if he’ll die of old age, but she knows that she dislikes the feeling. Her _dov _roars faintly in the back of their conjoined soul. Sahkriimar doesn’t possess much enthusiasm but doesn’t express discontentment either. It’s a slow, turbulent trek up that requires frequent stops, repeated shouting of the Clear Skies thu’um, and the consumption of every snack she packed since first leaving for Sky Haven Temple. She doesn’t want to think of how difficult the trek would be without her shouts; if the thu’um’s magic didn’t compel the skies to clear then she doubts she could reach the summit at all without a ward to protect her.

The summit of the Throat of the World, highest peak in Skyrim, is reached six hours after she first begins the hike up. She’s used her thu’um no less than sixty times, averaging out to ten times every hour or a shout every six minutes. She finds her lungs and throat and _soul _ache from the exertion, but she knows once she steps unto the summit she can rest. She exhales sharply once the word wall and Paarthurnax come into view; the word wall is an ancient but beautiful relic of the past with ancient _dovah _text inscribed on one side. Paarthurnax is initially but a figure in the sky, flying circles and doing loops with beautiful aerial maneuvers and acrobatics.

Inside of her chest, she senses _Sahkriimar _withdraw.

“Paarthurnax!” The Dragonborn bellows to the air.

The old dragon has a faded, chipped set of cream-colored scales so light they might as well be gray or white. His horns are chipped, he’s missing teeth, and ancient battle scars adorn his figure. Even immortal, Paarthurnax is a sign that time wears at all creatures. Kara smiles; the nighttime aurora in the sky presents a beautiful glow of colors and starlight across some of the dragon’s more-intact scales.

_“Drem Yol Lok. _Greetings, _wunduniik._ I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my _zok revak strunmah_… this sacred mountain?” The dragon gives the words upon landing. He’s not larger than Sahkriimar’s draconic form, but he’s still larger than the average dragon Kara’s stumbled upon in the past.

She smiles at his words. “I think you already know who I am, Paarthurnax.”

The dragon cocks his head to one side. Old, tired eyes blink slowly as gears turn in his head.

“…Yes, _vahzah,_ forgive me, _dovahkiin_. You speak true. It has been long since I held _tinvaak _with a stranger. I gave in to temptation to prolong our speech.” The old wyrm straightens upright and watches her. “Tell me. Why do you come here, _volaan?_ Why do you intrude on my meditation?”

The weariness in his eyes matches her own. She offers him a half-smile. “You know why, don’t you? You already know who I am. But—There are formalities, you know, when it comes to the first meeting of two _dov_. You are the elder. Please—Go ahead.” Kara clasps her hands in front of her and nods.

Paarthurnax’s tail flickers faintly in amusement. He begins to shake his head. “My _hadrimme _cannot comprehend what you know, _dovahkiin, Duin. Krosis. _Sorrow. It cannot be made known to me but by a change in my _dez, _fate. But you see we have already met before, across a _tiid bo amativ, _a time that moves ever forward. You know _dov _are children of Akatosh. Thus we are.. specially attuned to to the flow of Time.”

The words confirm what the emperor told her before she slit his throat. It is true; Paarthurnax is the Greybeard atop the Throat of the World with knowledge of consumers.

“Normally,” Kara breathes out each syllable with a careful breath. She is mindful of what words she uses, both in common speech and the _dovah _tongue. “You tell me this—When I ask you to gift me knowledge of the _Dragonrend _shout, the thu’um built on hate of all _dovah_. You tell me of the—The Time Wound. The Elder Scrolls. Defeating Alduin.”

“The _Tiid-Ahran, _Time Wound. _Kel. _Elder Scrolls.” Paarthurnax repeats each with a nod. His body is not tense, but it is slumped in a fashion that is almost saddened.

_Krosis. _Her _dov _speaks in her mind.

“But you do not seek my brother’s _dilon_, downfall, hmm? If you did—You would ask other things, _dovahkiin. _You come here to seek truth. _Vahzen._” The dragon’s observations are astute, perfectly playing to his character.

_But this isn’t a video game anymore. _Kara stiffens and frowns. She lets her hands fall back to her sides. “We’re dancing around the subject, aren’t we? Paarthurnax. You know why I came here. I need answers.”

“_Drem dovahkiin. _You feel it too, don’t you? The flow of _tiid_, time, against you. It is your Dragon Blood… The _sossedov_. _Dovah sos. _Many words for it. But all are _vahzen, _true, you are _dovahkiin_ and bound to _dez _as we all are.” Parthuurnax turns and strides to the world wall. He climbs up it and curls around it. It’s a picture-perfect image of what she expects to see if everything _was _a video game, scripted, all of it.

“Do you want me to stop asking you questions about it? About my world? Earth—About consumers—I thought you enjoyed _tinvaak _with strangers?” Kara bites her lip.

“There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed, _dovahkiin_. _Evenaar bahlok,_” The old _dov _looks back with careful eyes. “I am old… wise. _Wuth onik. _You walk a line you may not return from.”

“What line?” It’s a hint at something, a subject she does not truly understand.

Part of her wonders if she should call Sanguine and ask him to sit in on the discussion. But no, this is Paarthurnax, Grand Master of the Greybeards. He won't hurt her unless she attacks.

The Dark Brotherhood member strides up to the word wall. Though a Word of Power glows and calls to her from its place, she doesn’t do more than place a hand on its side. The stone feels icy cold to the touch.

“_Zaammeytiid, dovahkiin. _The name of the _dovah _you are bound to. A _lun neh vir._” Paarthurnax bows his head.

_Lun neh vir. Neh vir—Never dying. But Lun? _The Dragonborn squints. “So it is my _dov _we speak of in this _tinvaak_. You speak ill of them, Paarthurnax? Are they not _dovahzii_, as you are _nahl dov?_”

“Living dragon. No. _Niid._ They lack _zii_. The soul is a powerful thing, _unslaad. Zaammeytiid _rejected the _zii _of our father. They sought out a power beyond their thu’um,” Paarthurnax’s voice drops. It becomes cold and dry, sorrow-filled and bitter. “_Dahmaan, _this is a line they crossed long ago, _dovahkiin_. Remember that. Do not repeat their errors.”

“_What _errors? What line? I need everyone to stop being so cryptic! By Hades and Hermes,” the Dragonborn grits her teeth and balls her fists. Her patience, her _drem_, has begun to crack. “Paarthurnax! I _need _answers! I desire them, seek them! What is it about _Sahkriimar _that makes her so terrible? If you cannot tell me the truth, _vahzen, _then give me a good explanation before I lose my temper.

She doesn’t mean to threaten the old dragon, but it comes out regardless. Her words are strong and harsh, but she doesn’t care at that point. She has come too far to be given more useless dialogue. She’s sick of running around Skyrim on endless quests for scraps of information. She’s _impatient_, _niid drem. _

“First I have a question for you,” the old dragon shuts his eyes and rests his head against the word wall. Kara instantly feels a pang of guilt. She stiffens her restlessness and nods. “Why do you want to know these truths, _dovahkiin_? It will not change _dez_, fate. _Zaammeytiid _made their decision. They cannot undo time. _Niid vo tiid. _Even if this world repeats… It is hopeless.”

“She is _Sahkriimar _now.” Is all Kara can offer. She has improved greatly at _dov _speech since first beginning as ‘Kara’ in _Skyrim, _but even now she starts to struggle. She has a headache that cannot leave. It reminds her too much of who she was, of how she lost her life in another world, and the pain starts to cloud over any semblance of rational connections she can form in her mind.

“Phantom-Kill-Allegiance. _Sah krii mar. _Yes, befitting them.” Paarthurnax’s growl is faint and low. “_Dovahkiin, _do not let their _pahlok _lead you astray. They are no _bahlaan fahdonne. _They are not your friend, merely _zii _to your _joor. Sossedov. _They exist as your Dragon Blood. Akatosh blesses you with their thu’um—Voice.”

“So you know of the repeats, Paarthurnax. Of _Sahkriimar. _You don’t like them. But why? What could they have possibly done to earn your _beyn_, scorn?” Kara shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

“_Et’Ada.” _It’s the same word she heard used by Vrechinn before Cicero and her reached Sky Haven Temple. Paarthurnax’s use of the term is tentative. “_Joorre _call them the original spirits, the _zii, _but perhaps you _dahmaan _them as _Daedra. Aedra. Dovahkiin._”

“I suspected that much! I already know about the Daedra—” She freezes. The pain in her skull increases and she grabs at her head, howling and hissing and cursing in different tongues as the pain explodes inside her skull and envelopes her. It is a blistering, pounding ache that piercing every layer of her brain and renders her weak and in tears. _What is happening to me? _

“It is the line, _dovahkiin, _that which separates you from them. The madness that encompasses your _sossedov, Zaammeytiid. _It is fearful… _Zofaak, _to consider. You must accept it is not the way to be! They are bound to power. _Suleyk. _Their _dez _is sealed in the _Et’Ada _they worshipped. Do not pursue this!” The _dovah _urges.

“...Which Daedra?” She hisses the words now, barely able to concentrate past the blistering headache. When Paarthurnax hesitates, she looks him in the eye and growls. “_Which Et’Ada? _Paarthurnax. I need to know! _Beyn dovah!” _

Paarthurnax bellows with anger. _“Mey! Dovahkiin!_ _Onikaan ni ov dovah! _It is a mistake to trust them, no matter what they have told you! _Dahmaan!_”

“I promised to save them!” Kara _screams _the words with tears falling down her cheeks. She feels like someone has beaten chunks out of her skull, her head, her _soul_. _Zii. _

“_Pahlok joor, dovahkiin,_” Paarthurnax’s voice drops to a whisper. “You seek the same _dez _as _Zaammeytiid?” _

“I don’t know, Paarthurnax! I don’t know! I just want to _fix_ it! To fix all of it! I want things to be okay! I want this world to make _sense, _Paarthurnax! I’m so close to understanding,” The woman curses under her breath. She howls in pain at the sky and roars when it doesn’t leave. _“Zu’u dovahkiin,_ I am the _Dragonborn!_ The consumer! Why can’t I make it stop?! Why can’t I keep my loved ones alive?! Why can’t I _save her? _I promised her—_Paarthurnax_—Why can’t you just shut up and _help me?!”   
_

“Because they are corrupt! This will end in _grah, dovahkiin, _do not tread this path!” The older dragon leaps into the sky with a shout, not of magic but of the warning.

_I said I would help her. _The Dragonborn’s bow finds its way to her hands. She notches an arrow, aims, and growls. “Then so be it. I don’t care anymore. I’m sick of everything going _wrong_ when I’ve worked so hard to set things right! I brought the Greybeards the damn horn! _Beyn, _for all of them! For you! _Beyn!” _The arrow flies and Paarthurnax’ body sweeps to one side, narrowly avoiding it. Kara’s rusty with her lack of practice, having favored her dagger for so long, but she’s stubborn as her dragon spirit. She notches another, pulls back, and fires right as the larger dragon makes a dive for her.

The arrow connects with Paarthurnax’s shoulder, but not before he opens his mouth and blasts her with_, “Zun haal viik!”_

The Disarm shout sends her bow and quiver _flying _out of her reach, dagger included. She growls at him when he passes by, and her eyes burn in an inhumane fury befitting only a true _dov. “Gol hah dov,_ Paarthurnax! Kneel!”

The command of the Last Dragonborn is absolute. The old dragon has no choice but to land and bow before her shaking, trembling, pained form. She can’t stand to look at him, but she does. She feels her body rock back and forth in utter agony as her nerves wilt and die and revitalize with each passing second. Things don’t make sense. She doesn’t understand why she’s so angry, why she’s taken it personally, but the chaos and anger is too overwhelming for her to say no. She’s lost track; she's lost focus. Not even the indulgent, soothing Dremora-tissue in her body helps right her mind. The name _Sanguine _is as far from her lips as _Sahkriimar. _

She wants blood.

_But you won’t get it. _The voice of the man of her dreams informs her with a rousing grin as he walks across the snow and stone. The entire world is an epitome of a frozen frame of film: snow hangs in mid-air, her body remains still, and she stares the body of Paarthurnax in the face as his submissive, empty eyes look back at her.

The Daedra smiles at her. He’s a Prince, she knows that now, because the power he embodies is too devastating not to acknowledge it. It is not the friendly, enticing allure of Sanguine’s presence, nor is it anywhere near as nightmarish as she perceived Hermaeus Mora’s “gifts” to be when he sent several to Sanguine’s plane of Oblivion. No, the energy that showers the area is nothing short of _madness. _It is chaos incarnate, a story with no sense and holes in the spine, and a classical smile that dances across the Prince’s face as he stops across from her and puts a hand on Paarthurnax’s shoulder. Neither Paarthurnax or her can move; she doubts either of them can do more than _think _in the presence of the Prince.

The man is an Imperial. Just like her dream. His skin bears wrinkles and he looks like he’s endured tough battles, with faint scars visible across his face, neck, and what little of his arms can be seen before disappearing under his grandiose two-toned suit. He’s a Prince that has _character_, an air of prestige and understanding, but one that is represented in a way that doesn’t quite align with what her brain wants to perceive. The little details are off; she sees no crown but acknowledges his regal nature, she sees a human, but his eyes glow white like one of the Divines, and she sees a suit that shouldn’t be present among _Skyrim_’s fantastical wardrobes.

It’s too modern, too much like her world’s, and too frighteningly similar to the tuxedo her husband’s best man wore to their wedding. The man’s curly hair reminds her of the best man, too. She can’t help but obsess over the increasing similarities when the pain in her head ceases and her body drops like a rock. She falls to her hands and knees and gasps for air but finds she cannot lift herself up. Paarthurnax and the world remain as they are; still as stone and succumbed to the Prince’s godly powers.

“My name is Sheogorath, my dear,” the Prince walks to her and wrenches her head up to look at him. “And you have made things very, _very _complicated! Annoyingly so, ha ha!”

It’s too much to speak. Her mouth hangs open, but no sounds emerge. She stares.

Sheogorath tilts his head to one side and pats her cheek with a palm. His skin feels warm but cold, rough but soft, and a myriad of other contradictions she doesn’t understand. “Shh, shh. Don’t fret. I’ve thought everything through, you see—This is all part of something greater than yourself. It may hurt, the impact, but know that you have been given the pleasure of _basking _in the Hero of Kvatch’s presence! Does the name ring a bell? No? A shame.” He talks on and on regardless of the lack of response. The man releases her and straightens upright. He looks down at her like she’s an ant and he’s contemplating squishing her with a boot. “Good, good, yes, ah, now let me see here…”

Where the clipboard comes is beyond her. It materializes as if it was always there, just a trick of the light, but in the Prince’s hands it is _real _and _firm _and he flips it open like it were a notepad. Her brain can’t register the sight; she knows the clipboard cannot act like _that _but slices of plastic are turned over like they are nothing more than sheets of paper.

“So, I had you down for, what? You running into Paarthurnax here, check! Paarthurnax being a posterior and incapable of explaining major plot-lines… check! See,” the Daedric Prince throws one hand in the air and waves it around. “When things go like _this _everything works out! Beautiful, I kiss, I kiss, the audience claps! It is all beautiful, beautiful!!” He blows the air a kiss and resumes the clipboard’s checklist.

Kara has no idea what is occurring. Her head spins.

“But there’s a problem. An itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny problem. Sloan Holmes, is it? I got your name down right here, missy, the resume, cover letter, the whole wazoo, yep,” Sheogorath taps a ruler to the clipboard and writes something down. The sound of nails on chalkboards screeches across the Throat of the World’s frozen summit, but Kara cannot bring her hands up to cover her ears. “_Unfortunately, _someone here went a little bit off script! _My_ script! Sloan, Sloan, Sloan. You know, I go out and act all nice and lovely for you. Let you run through the story! Be a hero! Have control! Give you this entire world to play in! And what do you do? Do you thank the wonderfully lovely Sheogorath for it? No. You harass mortals, fuck my good friend Sanguine, and go running around throwing all of _my _plans out the window. I got things to do, lady. It isn’t so easy being a Daedric Prince on a time-crunch!”

_The Daedric Prince of Madness. Sheogorath. _Gears start turning in her head.

Sheogorath knows—he knows a lot, it seems—and he smiles and nods and chucks the clipboard over his shoulders. He huffs and claps two hands. The entire scene begins to rewind; time itself appears to go backward as Kara feels her body move on its own. Paarthurnax, too, appears to be part of the play. The actions the two had taken up until now undo themselves and Kara finds herself back at the word wall with one hand pressed against the rock. She sees the elderly dragon perched on the wall above her.

“So, I understand you're interested in tearing this dragon limb-from-limb. We get it, you're protective, real considerate friend right there. But that's not going to happen. I am thoroughly _abhorred_ by your lack of cooperation. Is it so much for you to keel over and die, Dragonborn? Is it so hard to let another consumer take your place? I wasn't intending on making you take mine! I was going to let you walk out of this world and go back to the tiny little land you call Earth. You would never have known any of this was possible. But you didn't! You didn't, you sure as Oblivion didn't want to play by the rules! Mods didn't even complete you, darling! You wanted something more. You craved what you couldn't have. You yearned for it so much you sought out the _very_ Daedra capable of offering you respite. Some luck I have!” Sheogorath throws his arms in the air. He sits—on nothing—crosses his legs, and sighs. "No, no, don't apologize, my dear, you couldn't have known how much you fucked me over. Garnering the interest of a Daedric Lord like that... I bet you enjoyed every second of it. Every second his lips stole yours. Or—No. That's not it. It was _yours _that took his, wasn't it? Tch. Consumers early in Mundus are always that reckless."

He snaps a finger.

Kara gasps in shock, in air, in having control over herself once more. She looks at Paarthurnax, the dragon watching her with tense shoulders and sharp eyes. 

"Paarthurnax—Listen to me—There's a Daedra—He wants you to fight—He wants you to attack me—I know what I just said—But I wouldn't—I wouldn't bend your will, Paarthurnax! I promise you! I—"

Paarthurnax’s eyes narrow at her and the dragon leaps to the ground. He eyes her carefully. _“Dovahkiin. _You speak madness! The _zaam mey tiid_ has corrupted your will!"

The Daedra is present, a shape in her peripheral. She knows the Prince reeks of influence over the inhabitants of Mundus. He will ensure the scene ends as it will. Her words mean nothing.

She has to act.

“Gol_ ha—” _

But Paarthurnax is faster in this time, this version. Even in his old age, he is a dragon of experience and wisdom. The elderly _dovah _jumps on her and screeches a furious, _“Gol hah dov!” _in her face. She feels her will crumple and control of her body shift to him. Paarthurnax climbs off her and looks down at her with sorrowful, mourning eyes. “This brings me great _krosis._ Sorrow. I did not want this, _dovahkiin_. But _Zaammeytiid _is no ally to man. They are the champion of an _Et’Ada, _a Daedric Prince. They reek of madness, of a power that corrupts and controls. I cannot allow you to free them. Now, walk with me. We must greet the sky.”

Paarthurnax orders her to follow and her body complies. She can see Sheogorath from her peripheral no matter the angle her body turns in. She follows the old dragon to a high point on the summit, one where the edge of the cliff drops and reveals both a terrible fall and a spectacular view of Skyrim’s auroras. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and horrifying all at the same time.

Then—The world freezes again. Sheogorath stands and walks up to her and Paarthurnax. He wraps an arm around her shoulder, offers a frown, and nudges her toward the edge. “It’s sad, _truly, _but you must understand this is the way it is. I intended for you to finish this story like the rest. You would defeat the World Eater and seize a place in history as the legendary hero. You would have been loved! Admired! Adored! Everything you couldn't be in _life!_ But you couldn't stay with the _script," _He's calm but angry, annoyed but accepting. "I should have figured when you decided to go through, what was it? Sixteen different deaths before you finally landed on _Kara? _No player can willingly put up with the fact unless they have consumed the realm, changed the tides, turned the story into their own. It's not your story to change, Sloan. It never was. It is the tale of a land called Skyrim, where a civil war ravages the provinces and hinders the region. It is a tale of consumers being the fabled, prophesied Dragonborn, of finding their own path and way through the world. It is an excuse to snap up a soul that might _finally_ be worthy enough to break the chain and end the cycle I was coerced into beginning. I'm sick of me, my dear. I'm sick of _me!" _Sheogorath growls.

The noise is almost as deadly as the height at the edge of the cliff, leering at her from below and calling her to leap and fall and plummet.

"It would have been beautiful. I would have been free from my crown and its influence. I would have..." and he stops, holds his head, hisses and curses and stomps his feet. He snaps his head at her and shouts and screams and roars in old tongues she can't recognize. The Daedric Prince keeps the world around them frozen but he puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "You should have died at the Ratway. That would have... fixed things, my dear. Riften is a lovely resting grounds, full of shit and fecal matter that reeks in the bowls of each of us. It would have solved everything. If Sanguine didn't find you so fascinating—It was so close! Right there! Your blood, smeared across the floor, covering the walls and leaving a cacophony of death! I tasted it! Your soul departing! I was going to restart things, fix things, make things happen the way they should! You couldn't have told the Lord of Debauchery to fuck off, could you? No! Of course not! You and your heinous crush on him! A devil! _Demon!_ Those are the words your world uses, mortal, do not think for a second I haven't seen through your thoughts and ripped through your mind!" Sheogorath's grip digs into her armor, her collarbone, her skin. She feels his nails claw into her flesh while her body remains idle and suspended in time.

“You make a lovely Dremora. A partial one, that is. Sickening. My decisively decadent Daedric friend _had _to heal you because you _amused _him." The Daedric Prince calms immediately. He releases her and peers over the edge of the cliff, "Now I have to play my hand early. The betting's not up yet my cards are chosen, my fate is stacked, and I am here with you on the edge of this mountain to force the restart that should have happened when you were _caught by bandits_ or _attacked by dragons_ or _handed over to the Thalmor."_

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t make sense of it. It’s too much information at once, far more than her brain can process, and Sheogorath smiles in acknowledgement of such.

“But I'm going to right the story, so it’s _okay,_” and he continues on, and on, like she can understand his words and their many meanings. “By okay—I mean you’re going to fall off the world and die and things will restart and _then _it should be right! It’ll suck, yadda yadda, lots of pain, but it’s real sudden! Quick! Not so shabby way to go, all things considered. Trust me, _it’s all part of the plan, _Sloan, all part of _my _plan. I gotta make sure all of this goes a _certain way _and you just happen to be in the crossfire of it. You aren’t the protagonist! Congratulations! I doubt you’ll be in too much agony. Unless Sanguine and Sithis start a fight over their claims to your soul. Should have thought that one through before you fucked a Daedra and pledged yourself to the Night Mother, tsk, tsk."

She remembers something, from a time long ago. It’s been over a year, but her anger and desperation in the face of losing Cicero to the Thalmor is a memory that remains bold and beautiful in her mind. It is the time she summoned Sanguine, the Lord of Debauchery and Prince of Hedonism. It is the time she screamed at him, cursed him, all for him to help Cicero while she bled to death. It is a memory of him telling her he knows _every single desire _she has.

It is a memory of him telling her he knows she wants to live.

She cannot move, cannot struggle, and cannot fight back. But she knows Daedric magic is a tricky thing, and though the world bends and shapes itself around Sheogorath’s liking as if it is nothing more than his lucid dream, she knows Daedric magic is _complicated as hell. _She knows it hurts. She knows it is a nuisance to handle. She knows Sanguine can tell when she’s running around in life-or-death situations and sending his magic back to his Plane of Oblivion.

_When it all goes back to him… _She stares Sheogorath in the eyes and wills the Daedric magic to leave her body. _When he returns to full strength…_

Every cut reopens. Every wound unfolds. Her flesh rips and tears to free itself of the Dremora tissue that specks her body from head to toe.

_He can come for me. _

“It’s a clever trick, it is, but the show must go on. I have to prepare to for a new universe and you have a date with death and a cliff, dearest.” And Sheogorath presses the air as if it were a button and the world begins to move again. Paarthurnax seems unaware or willingly ignorant to the mess of blood drenching her clothes from dozens and dozens of opened wounds and bleeding lacerations. She can’t stand on her own, but the bend will shout compels her to stay upright.

Paarthurnax looks at her sadly. “You chose to cross the line, _dovahkiin. _This is an act of mercy. A means to an end. Now—”

A sphere of purple magic explodes behind her as the older dragon finishes the command.

“Fall.”

She takes the step.

She can hear Sanguine in the background. He’s saying her name, shouting at her in a tone too un-Sanguine and too _mortal _for a Prince. But her will is bent and her body cannot stop in time; she falls from the Throat of the World. The air rushes up to her. She can’t stop the wind leaving her lungs or breathe a shout of Dragon Aspect to cushion the landing. The world around her spins and melds in a myriad of colors, in a dreamy state of being, up until the ground suddenly _rushes _to meet her. By the time of impact, her blood’s frozen to her body and her heart gives out in shock. In the distance comes the sound of agony, and a myriad of howling magic and sanguine-red bloodstains. 


	39. enter the dragonborns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for every story, there is an ending. for the daedric prince of madness, all endings are doors waiting to be opened. and for a certain dragonborn and dov, the door opens early.

The remains scatter across the impact site, a rich scarlet and beautiful crimsom leaving a sheet of gore where her body hits and slides off the mountain face. Shrouded letter barely holds even with dead enchantments and Gabriella’s hand-stitches. The potions in the Dragonborn’s bag explode at the landing and seep through the leather while glass shards shred it to pieces and shred what dangly, mangled limbs and organs and flesh remain of the woman. The snow is sanguine-red. Overhead, the night sky is clear yet it feels like it rains as drops of red and scatterings of flesh dance through the ethereal, glowing white form of Zaammeytiid.

Kara is dead.

They remember, now. They always do when the Dragonborn dies, or the quest is completed. It is the will of their pact, the fine details written underneath the folly of words they once signed, and the promise of their servitude to the one their master abandoned them to. 

There’s a power on the mountain. It’s devastating and agonized, and it reeks of rage and anger and sorrow. It is a slosh of mead, of honeyed words, and of a life that will never get to experience all the little things planned. They aren’t surprised at the Daedric Prince’s reaction, nor do they feel sympathy for Paarthurnax as they look up the mountain from a lower cliff base. The old dragon was a hand of Sheogorath, just as they are his arm, and even if it was through his influence Paarthurnax still acted in the madness of it all. The use of a _gol hah dov _shout on a fellow _dov _is unforgiveable by many _dovah_… The ethereal form flickers and exhales deeply. Their golden wings unfurl and their tail flickers as they look up, aim, and leap into the air.

_Sanguine is right to slay you, Paarthurnax. You do not have my sympathy. Nor can I ever have yours. _Rightfully so, the _dov _spirit acknowledges.

When they reach the summit, the chains and collars of their master’s control form and manifest in ruffled bands and hardened slabs of white marble. They shiver but bow their head obediently and let Sheogorath call them to his side. The Daedric Prince of madness smiles and strokes their head; it is humiliating but they say not, for they have not been spoken to. If all goes well and the universe rests, they hope not to be spoken to for a long time. Sheogorath is a knowing master and the Daedra is aware of every single thought, action, and feeling the _dov _spirit possesses when part of the Dragonborn.

They wish to apologize to Kara. But she is dead. Paarthurnax is dead. Soon, the world ends. They should have realized the warning they spoke of to Kara when Vrechinn of Karthspire’s Forsworn Camp offered the words. _Our world soon begins. The blessing of Sheogorath grants the universe this right. For he is the champion, the hero, the suffering. He is the fallen and you could never hope to outsmart him, Sloan. _

A rich, ruby-red, sanguine-mottled and obsidian-veined amorphous _entity _of energy swirls around in an oozing, viscous shape. Sanguine reeks of alcohol after a late night, of games and merriment and the dark indulgences all secretly harbor beneath the surface, but right now he also seethes of rage. His power is frightening to witness. They were wrong to provoke him as Kara-Dragonborn’s _dov _spirit. They were never walking the same grounds. They were but a soul tasked and sworn to Sheogorath.

“Well, look who it is! You’ve had better days, Sanguine, it’s not often you turn into that glorious bastard,” Sheogorath pats _Zaammeytiid_’s head and the _dov _spirit bows accordingly. When the sanguine-red Prince offers no response, Sheogorath quickly adds. “You’re hard to talk to when you’re like that, c’mon, take a load off, aren’t you supposed to be the goody-two-shoes nice guy that runs around sexing up the place? Not some Prince of Madness, oh _no_, like you would ever be _that _guy! Ha! No, no, no. No. You’re Sanguine. So please, my decadent Daedra friend, put a cap on your overemotional hubris and _relax_. Don’t want to come off as too mortal, now do we?”

And the raging red shape—a spirit, an entity of vast power and terrifying depths—compresses and takes the form _Zaammeytiid _knows too well. It is the figure of a Daedra, of obsidian-skin muscles and gleaming Daedric armor. It is the Prince they know as Sanguine, the ancient _Et’Ada _whose power surpasses most creatures of Oblivion. What they look at is not simply a Dremora but a _god_.

“Mm, better, better. Now we can talk! Have a cup of tea! Apparently I’m known for tea parties, cheese wheels, it’s all business I don’t care for but the sphere must fit the Daedra, ho ho,” Sheogorath sits back in the air. “Did you really have to slay the old guy? I know what he did, truly, and it’s a shame about the Dragonborn but you didn’t—”

_“Shut up.”_ No hint of mischief or gleam of merriment. Nothing but a hatred that seeps through the Prince’s steps. His metal greaves and boots cling softly as he strides the grounds of the summits, picks up Sheogorath by the collar, and _hisses_. The words he goes on to say are not ones Zaammeytiid understands. All the _dov _spirit knows is that what Sanguine speaks comes out a voice that rips through the air and leaves ungodly howls across the peak’s grounds. The spoken words of the _Daedric _tongue are an ungodly choir and Zaammeytiid cannot do a thing but sit, stay, and wait for a command from their master.

“Hmmm, yes, you _could _declare war, sure! Why not? Come to my plane of Oblivion, Sanguine, take a nice vacation in the Shivering Isles! But if you do,” and it’s a crooked grin, a malice sneer, and a voice as taunting as the look of pleasure that grows in Sheogorath’s eyes. “Then you can’t resurrect her. Sithis will claim her. She’ll become part of his Void.”

Sanguine spits at his feet. He throws the Prince back. Sheogorath releases the threads tying him and Zaammeytiid together as to not become tangled up as he goes heels-over-head backwards and slams into a rocky outcropping.

“I should have gone to your plane first. Mephala suggested it.” Sanguine holds a hand out. It’s a beautiful sight to witness the summoning of Daedric artifacts, but where he is known for the rose staff what comes to his hands is an elegant, alluring sword with a guard of emerald-green leaves and vines ensnaring the hilt. The rapier holds a curve as tempting to touch as it is to _stab_ and even Zaammeytiid feels the artifacts pull from their perch.

“She’s known for her lies, less for her truths.” Sheogorath sits upright and rubs the back of his head. He laughs. “I bet you didn’t even think about it! You sly, sneaky bastard—Always down to fuck and fumble with the bodies of Daedra and mortals alike. Guess you can say you’ve bedded a _dov _now, Dragonborn are practically the same, eh—_Oblivion!”_ The Daedric Prince shouts and rolls out of the strike.

When the rose sword hits the stone where he lay, it glows in greedy sanguine-red and a burst of Daedric magic channels through the tip. The rock _shatters _into pieces and Sheogorath begins an unhealthy dance of weaving, ducking, and diving out of the way of his fellow Prince’s strikes. Zaammeytiid has not seen Sanguine fight beyond a dagger and greatsword, but the lighter rapier seems to fit perfectly in his palm. They watch his figure join Sheogorath’s dance across the field, where the two Princes fight to lead and oppose and destroy and survive. But Sheogorath does not need survival; Zaammeytiid knows their master. They are cursed to obey, to serve, to act in his name, and they have existed too many millenia to not understand what this new Sheogorath seeks, wants, and is _capable of. _

_They once called you the Champion of Cyrodiil. _The word wall explodes in front of the ethereal spirit’s form, chunks of stone and ancient brick flying through their translucent body. Their glowing eyes dim. _The Hero of Kvatch. But then the day came for my old master’s march. The curse the Daedra soiled his name with. And you heeded Sheogorath’s calls and rejected the act of order and deduction Jyggalag sought to impose. _

The aurora’s in the sky are solely red, they realize. The auroras in the night sky are bending and shifting and starting to swirl into a pattern of unknowable potential and world-shattering magic. It is the world that begins again, Zaammeytiid sees, for they have seen it many times: the reset.

_They called you Savior of Bruma. The Gray Fox. Your name—Wiped from history, master. Your identify subjected to the crown of madness placed on your head. _The dragon spirit rises to their feet. Their ruffled manacles and heavy chains weigh them down, keep them from their sky until Sheogorath calls for their air. They look up at the darkness and frown. _What a terrible fate to befall the hero of the Oblivion Crisis. It is what draws us together, you and I. For others have given up on us, damned us to our cages. I was a fool to think I could escape. _

Phantom-Kill-Allegiance. They don’t want to acknowledge the ache in their chest when they recall the way the name _Sahkriimar _fell from a jester’s lips so recently. It is now long ago, for the past is far away and they cannot repeat it.

_Not even the Night Mother can save me. I hope, _and for a moment the pact’s magic is lifted and the shaking, trembling _krosis _of the dragon’s soul claws at their inside. Their chest heaves. _You find drem. Sloan. Peace. Your promise was wasted, but your zii sung to the end. You were a mulkaal, joor diiv. Zoor shaan laas, dovahkiin. _

“Enough of this! I said _enough,_” and Sheogorath’s voice roars as loud as Zaammeytiid’s thu’um. The Daedric Prince of madness howls and forces the world to a standstill. Time stops and the universe holds its breath as the mad Prince holds his hands out. His eyes gleam of a wickedness that no hero should live to become. Ten feet away, Sanguine raises the rose rapier.

If they were _Sahkriimar_, if Sahkriimar was _Kara_, they imagine she would find the picture amusing. But they are not, were not, can not be, for Kara is dead and they are the champion of Sheogorath.

“I will wait for you in the Isles, Sanguine, if you desire my company so _much_,” and Sheogorath snaps the words. When his hands shift place, he pulls a staff from thin air and clutches it to his chest. “But you will not continue this _madness _here, oh, no, no, no! I intend to reset this world and all within it.”

“Good to know who’s _been fucking up things for all of us,”_ Sanguine’s words drip of venom. His artifact, the sword, disappears from his hands and he straightens upright. “I’m sure all our Daedra kin are just _smashed _to hear all you’ve been up to, Sheogorath! You think this goes under our noses? _All of us are looking _for the dastardly Daedra Lord capable of screwing up _so _badly time falls apart in this world! I bet _all _of us will just love to hear about your antics! You may have been the Champion of Cyrodiil but us Daedra are a lot smarter than you make us to be!”

“Ah, yes, smart enough to ask me to cast a spell that strips a party nude, yes, yes, of course, I’m _so sorry _I underestimated your wits and capabilities, Sanguine,” and Sheogorath clasps his hands together, staff suspended in mid-air, and he begs and pleads in a mocking tone. “Why, will you _ever _forgive me, pretty please? For I’ve been bested by your good looks and incessant drinking! Boo hoo! Poor Sheogorath! I should have stayed in the mind of Pelagius the Mad!”

“They’ll be delighted to know a Daedra can manifest on Mundus.”

Sheogorath’s eyes darken. He grabs his staff from the air and marches over to Sanguine, shoving the _Wabbajack _into the latter’s chestplate. “You think I care if they destroy my plane, you fool?! What are you, _mad_? Raving and ranting! I’m not as _inept _as you Daedra make me to believe! This is _my crown _and _mine alone _but I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t thank you for it! I’ll curse the whole heap of Mundus and burn it to the ground to have my way! All of you foolish, foolish, _foolish _fools! This isn’t about _power_—It’s about choice! Freedom! _Individuality! _Much like my dear _dov_ here.”

And Zaammeytiid is at their master’s side in an instant, compelled by a pact forged in ancient times. To hear Sheogorath of all Daedra speak about _individuality _and _freedom _is insulting but they hold their tongue and stare blankly at Sanguine. He ignores their gaze.

“I know my stakes, Sanguine, they are written in the crown Jyggalag _kindly _placed on my head. Much like the crown that rests on the _zaam mey tiid_. We are two of a kind, you know, two creatures forced into roles bestowed by others. They must surely loathe me, for I am not the Prince of Order and Logic and _Deduction _they sold their soul to,” Sheogorath tears backwards and clutches the _Wabbajack _to his chest. His brows furrow and his suit looks starkly out of place with the expression. “Which brings me to a grand, grand, _grand _plot! A beautiful, lovely, fantastic thing! I’ve had a lot to consider since my dear _dov _tried to escape their binding words in the name of Sithis and the Night Mother—”

Zaammeytiid stiffens. Their body freezes and a shudder involuntarily wrecks their ethereal form.

“I’ve figured it out, Sanguine, I have. _This time _will be beautiful! This time the story must work! I know what you plan to do with the Dragonborn’s soul, I do, it is why you haven’t thrown more of yourself at my feet and cut me down! Because you _can’t _if you want to raise that fragile, fleshy form and give it life! You can’t kill me and have her,” the Prince of Madness huffs and sticks his nose into the air. Sanguine’s leer could burn down _kingdoms_. “I’m well aware of how certain bits and pieces of information might cause me a few hiccups on the way, yes. Perhaps it means I played my hand too soon, but I don’t regret it at all! Because this next universe will be _beautiful_. Amazing. Exciting! A story to share for decades! By the time it begins, you’ll be weakened resurrecting _her_ and I’ll have things in place for what _I _want to do. Zaammeytiid!”

Zaammeytiid bows their head once more. They hear Sheogorath approach and rest a hand on their neck.

“My shining champion! I didn’t miss the way you sought to free yourself from my grasp. _Sahkriimar _is not and cannot be your name, for you are entwined to my service. But I cannot let you go _unpunished_,” And Zaammeytiid’s eyes widen, and they open their mouth to speak but Sheogorath is already moving away and waving at the sanguine-red auroras overhead. “Since you seek the sky, my _dov_, it is only fitting you are cursed to the ground. It will be a fun time for you, surely, with you and a new consumer to explore the depths of _Skyrim _together! Perhaps you’ll find _love_. I know it flows in abundance from _some _individuals here.” Sheogorath gags.

It’s a shame Sanguine is gone, but his reaction is surely one that might lessen the fear enveloping the _dov_ spirit. They are left in their chains, their collars, their manacles, attached to the Daedra Lord Sheogorath and forced to comply with his well-wishes. The smile in the broken, former hero is one of tragedy and vengeance. It is the only thing they see when the sky falls, and it is the only thing they think of when their vision turns black and wildlife chirp and sing in the distance.

A wagon creaks in the background.

Sunlight touches their skin.

They know in seconds what the punishment it. It is the sight of the big, blue sky overhead when they open their eyes. It is the smell of lilacs and blue mountain flowers when they look off the roadside. It is the realization they are being eyed and stared at like _meat _in a slow-moving cart, drawn by a mare and Imperial soldier. It is the horror that comes to their mind when their eyes adjust to the day and they feel a form lean against their right side. It is the sight of a face so keenly familiar, yet impossibly so, for Kara is _dead _and _gone _and _Sanguine wouldn’t have used that much power to bring a joor back. _

The punishment is the individual to their right, one of dark elf-like heritage that is distinctly _not _dunmer but _Dremora_. It is the punishment of staring at their former-Dragonborn’s unconscious, bound form as a Nord man with bright blonde hair, sitting directly across from them, looks them in the eye and begins the cutscene, “Hey, you! You’re finally awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally planned this story to go a diff way but i'm happy how it's ended  
i kind of view this as part of a series where the longest 'run' (life) gets its own section  
SO YAH THIS IS A SERIES NOW   
and i'm excited to start writing daedraborn and focusing on the thieves guild and daedric prince politics in that   
maybe eventually get around to all the other major storylines in skyrim, and the dlc?? eheehhe thats a bit far offfffff  
but this is not the end for our self indulgent trope-y cast of characters! only the beginning!
> 
> for those who read this story from start to finish up to 10/25/2019, please note i went back and edited the chapters 'time is an artificial construct' and 'too mortal for a prince' bc i realized there were a few plot strings left amuck and i wanted to remedy those   
thanks for reading everyone ^_^ see u in the next self indulgence tale


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